The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  "Good,” she whispered, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Victor's mouth. His response was mild, lazy in fact, and she couldn't have that. Not now. She needed him to need her, to crave her above all else. She reached between their bodies to lay her hand over the manhood beneath his breeches, to stroke it until it grew stiff again.

  "You're insatiable,” he said, drawing his smiling mouth away from hers. “The perfect woman. A lady on the outside, a whore at heart."

  Victor's words hurt, but Mary wouldn't allow him to see her pain. “The perfect woman, you say. Will you miss me when I'm gone? Father's talking about returning to the plantation soon. I thought that he would wait until the sickly season, until the summer was upon us, but he's restless and wants to go home. What will you do without me?"

  He wouldn't let her go. In her heart she knew it to be true. Surely she hadn't endured night after night of this for nothing.

  "I'll miss you, I suppose,” he admitted casually. “You're uninhibited and pretty, and perhaps the most audacious mistress I've ever had. I doubt if the next one will live up to your standards."

  He spoke so easily about other women, about another to take her place. Mary dropped her hand and pulled away. “The next one?"

  "You don't expect that I'll live the life of a celibate after you leave Charles Town, do you?” There was an underlying cruelty in his voice and in the hand that grasped her arm and pulled her close. “Don't spoil this by becoming tiresome, Mary."

  She allowed Victor to kiss her again, deep and rough this time. She allowed him to move between her legs and spread her thighs wide. “Maybe I don't have to leave Charles Town,” she said hopefully. “I hate the plantation, I've always hated it."

  Victor turned dark eyes up to her, then looked thoughtlessly away. “Your father would never allow you to stay here without a chaperone."

  "I wouldn't need a chaperone if I were married.” Mary took his head in her hands and forced him to look at her. “Would I?"

  "And who's the unfortunate lad who's asked?"

  Mary threaded her fingers through Victor's hair, holding on tight. He smiled at her, that wicked grin she loved and hated, and as she held his gaze, he moved forward to rest snugly between her thighs.

  "You could ask,” she whispered.

  His smile never wavered. “Women like you aren't meant for marriage. You're a mistress, a harlot, a woman for whom one man would never be enough."

  "You would be enough,” she whispered.

  He laughed at her, actually laughed at her as he leaned forward to take her mouth again. “When I do marry,” he promised with his mouth brushing hers, “I'll be certain to live in a mansion with a sizable carriage house. I've been thinking of asking Suzanne Fairfax,” he said casually. “What do you say, Mary? I'll marry Suzanne, and you can be my mistress always."

  "But I thought..."

  "All would have been perfection if only Penelope had said yes to my proposal,” he said as though he didn't hear her. “One Seton as my wife, another as my paramour. One to bear my children, another to bring me pleasure. We could have lived in the same house."

  The impossible idea seemed to excite him even more.

  There was no tenderness in his touch, and Mary knew now that there was no love, either. A whore at heart, he'd called her. Not the kind of woman a man would marry. He was actually thinking, as he met with her night after night, of asking that pasty-faced Suzanne Fairfax to be his wife.

  Tears came to her eyes but didn't fall. Victor might not think so now, but he would miss her when she went away. She'd make certain of it. She'd love him so hard, so completely, that no other woman would ever satisfy him. Then he'd think twice about marrying some boring, shy twit like Suzanne Fairfax.

  Her tears dried as she brought her lips to Victor's neck. She wrapped her legs around his body and held him fast, and whispered into his ear—not words of love but the words of an insatiable lover.

  Yes, he would miss her.

  Max didn't want to face Penelope, but he had no choice. For days he'd avoided her easily, sleeping into the afternoon, racing his horses or visiting his favorite tailor once he arose, fulfilling his duties as the Indigo Blade as Penelope slept. He only saw his wife over the supper table, where he prattled on about clothing and horses and she remained quiet.

  He took a deep breath and entered her bedchamber, bothering with only the faintest of knocks as he swung the door open. Penelope sat before a mirror while Helen brushed her magnificent dark hair. They both looked his way as the door swung open.

  Helen showed no emotion, but Penelope was obviously surprised to see him. Shocked, even.

  "I hate to disturb you, m'dear,” he said as he stepped into her room, “but there are important plans to discuss."

  Penelope glanced over her shoulder to Helen. “I can finish here, thank you."

  Helen curtseyed and left the room without looking directly at him, without looking back at her mistress. She seemed grateful for the chance to escape.

  "Plans, you say?” Penelope resumed brushing her hair, staring at her image in the mirror and avoiding looking at him. “What sort of plans?” She was pale, tired, and clearly unhappy.

  "The Huntlands’ ball is tomorrow night, and I had planned to wear the beige silk. I thought you might wear your pale blue gown."

  Penelope placed the brush down and turned to face him at last. “These are the important plans we have to discuss?"

  "We've been married a mere three weeks,” Max said, trying to instill a touch of horror into his voice. “Lud, what would people say if we clashed?"

  "I don't want to go,” Penelope said softly. She returned her attention to the looking glass and began to braid her hair over her shoulder. Her hands worked mindlessly, long pale fingers intertwining with strands of thick dark hair. “I ... I can't go, Maximillian."

  This was exactly what he'd been afraid of. Penelope had left the house only once since the wedding, and she'd had a single visitor—her cousin Mary who'd called on occasion. His wife was hiding here, and that would not do.

  "Nonsense,” he said tiredly. “You can't remain in this house forever, m'dear."

  "You don't understand."

  "I understand quite well,” he interrupted a bit too harshly. “It's the Lowry business, I suppose."

  She turned wide, desolate eyes his way, and he could almost sympathize with her. Almost. Such pain, such heartache in that simple glance. Was any of it real? He thought not.

  "Faith, m'dear, you're the talk of all Charles Town,” he said brightly. “A heroine or a traitor, a sinner or a saint, no matter what face you choose to wear, everyone will want to see it."

  "I didn't..."

  "Hush,” he said, raising a stilling hand. “I don't want to hear about your politics, your beliefs, or your reasons or your excuses. They bore me."

  "I know,” she whispered.

  "You will go to the Huntlands’ ball, and you will have a wonderful time. I insist."

  "I can't."

  Max stepped further into the room. He didn't want to be close to her, he didn't want to touch her, he didn't want to stare too closely into those deceptively sinless dark eyes that pleaded with him. “You will go,” he insisted lowly. “And you will smile and dance and laugh and gossip. You will play the happy bride for everyone in attendance. You will not cry, or plead, or wallow in self-pity."

  He needed to mingle with the loyalists, to become Victor Chadwick's friend and confidant. He'd endured horse races and cockfights, dull evenings over cognac and playing cards. He was quickly becoming accepted in this crowd. The Huntlands’ ball was important. People talked at these social events, and he had no choice but to be there to hear every uttered secret. Word had it the president of the council himself would be in attendance.

  He wouldn't throw away everything he'd worked for because Penelope was afraid to face what she'd done.

  There was defeat on her face, a dead calm in her eyes. “The pale blue, you say?” she whispered.

&nbs
p; Max smiled at his lovely, treacherous wife. “The pale blue."

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  Chapter Eleven

  Penelope was well aware that no one in attendance would dare to confront and accuse her of her supposed involvement in Heath Lowry's death. Not here, not now. This was primarily a loyalist crowd here at the Huntlands', and several members of the governor's council were in attendance. No harsh words were spoken, but she saw the indictment in the eyes of many old acquaintances, felt their condemnation in the cool way they said hello and then turned quickly away.

  Maximillian was no comfort at all, not that she'd expected it of him. He was satisfied because they made a handsome couple, because their outfits were harmonious and the March weather was fine and his new shoes didn't pinch. He seemed to care for nothing else.

  Shortly after their arrival, he'd deposited her in a corner and sauntered off to entertain a simpering group of empty-headed females who were charmed by his shallow wit and lazy smile.

  She hated him. For making her come to this dreadful ball, for not being the man she thought he was, for making her dream of a wonderful life and then taking it away. She, who had always been content to settle for whatever life offered her, was no longer satisfied with her lot. Maximillian had offered her a small taste of true happiness, and then made it vanish so completely she was no longer certain it had ever existed.

  She would likely spend the entire evening in this corner. Maximillian was entertaining and being entertained, Mary was dancing with partner after adoring partner, and no one—no one wanted to be seen with the betrayer Penelope Broderick.

  "You are lovely this evening.” The deep soft voice came out of nowhere, and Penelope turned her head to see Victor approaching with a smile on his face. He must have just arrived, because she'd been looking for him since she and Maximillian had been announced. She had so much to say to him, she didn't know where to start.

  "I can't believe your devoted husband would leave you all alone,” he said sarcastically.

  "Victor Chadwick.” Penelope took a deep breath to calm herself. “I've been trying to get in touch with you for weeks."

  "I know.” He stood beside her and watched the ebb and flow of dancers before them. “I did receive a number of letters, and of course your cousin mentioned a time or two that you were anxious to talk to me."

  "Anxious,” she hissed. “Yes, Victor, you could say I've been anxious to talk to you.” She saw no reason to delay asking the questions that had troubled her for weeks. “Why did you lie about my part in Heath Lowry's capture? Why did he lie?"

  He cocked his head to look at her. “I did you a favor,” he said with a smile.

  "A favor?” she hissed. “My life has been ruined and you truly believe you did me a favor?"

  "What I did was save you from the serious charge of aiding a criminal. What I did was save you from a long term in a very nasty prison. Why, a soldier was sorely wounded. You can imagine the charges I would have been forced to bring against you if he had died. Prison, Penelope. I don't think I could bear to see you hanging from a gallows.” He sounded very unsure of that last statement.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You were seen,” he whispered, “leaving the carriage house."

  "By whom?"

  His smile widened. “That I cannot tell you. Suffice it to say I have spies everywhere. How else was I to save you but to say that you came to me with the information that Heath Lowry was hiding in your carriage house?"

  "And Heath?"

  "Well,” Victor said without care, “telling Heath that you had come to me was necessary in order to make the scenario believable. I found it was quite simple to convince Heath that you'd betrayed him, since no one but you knew of his location."

  "I would have preferred to face the charges,” she said softly. “And I insist that you make a public announcement clearing my name."

  "You insist,” he said coldly.

  He was going to do nothing, and Penelope knew it as she studied his stoic profile. He was angry because she'd chosen Maximillian over him, and this was her punishment. What would he say if he knew living with Maximillian was punishment enough?

  "One day you'll thank me,” he said as he surveyed the crowded room with apathetic eyes. Those eyes hardened when he turned them to her.

  "I will not.” She, who had never stood up to a man before—who had never stood up to anyone before—held her ground and looked Victor in the eye. He had gone too far, and there was no one to defend her. Not her uncle—and certainly not her husband. She had no choice but to defend herself.

  "Come with me."

  Penelope was about to protest when Victor took her arm and steered her away from her somewhat comfortable and safe corner. “I have nothing else to say to you,” she said, trying in vain to slip her arm from his. He held on tight, and the only way she might escape would be to make a scene, to yell at him and demand that he release her.

  She was already the center of attention, and had no desire to make herself more so. They stayed close to the wall, drifting around small clusters of party-goers who turned their heads to watch as she and Victor circled the room. When they reached the opened doors that led to a small garden, Victor steered her through and into the night.

  Lanterns had been set here and there to light the night for those who needed a moment of fresh air, so they were not lost in darkness. Still, the sound and the light from the festive ballroom were muffled, and Penelope was grateful for the moment of respite.

  "I have a proposition for you,” Victor said, releasing her arm when they were well away from the doors. He indicated that she take a seat on the wrought iron bench amongst the roses, and she gratefully did so.

  "I can't imagine what sort of proposition that might be."

  She glanced up at Victor, who had placed himself before her so that he could easily stop her should she decide to return to the crowded ballroom without him. He was smiling again, a perfectly smug and satisfied grin.

  "Spy for me,” he said softly.

  "What?” Penelope came to her feet, ready to storm past him and run into the house, if that's what was necessary to escape.

  "Listen to me for a moment.” Victor placed his hands on her shoulders and forced her to sit once again. “I wouldn't ask you to endanger yourself, Penelope, you're much too dear to me even though you are wasting yourself on that foppish husband of yours.” A trace of hostility crept into his voice as he spoke of Maximillian.

  "Before you go further,” Penelope said coldly, “allow me to make it clear that I will not assist you in any way. A spy! That's absurd!"

  "Is it?” Victor was undaunted. “A bit of information here, an out-of-place statement there ... you simply listen and report what you hear to me."

  "I said no."

  "It's the Indigo Blade,” Victor said softly, and if possible there was more distaste in his voice than there had been when he spoke of Maximillian. “I was away for several days, following up on a lead that could take me to the mongrel. He's here in Charles Town, Penelope, living among us, and I think he's right under my nose. I can feel it. I'm so close...."

  "No,” Penelope said again. “I have no interest in your problems, political unrest, or the Indigo Blade."

  "You've heard of him?"

  "Of course."

  "He's a menace,” Victor said passionately.

  "A very clever menace, from what I hear,” Penelope said, glad to see Victor squirm.

  He appeared to be quite uncomfortable, pursing his thin lips and wrinkling his nose as if he smelled something bad. “Heath Lowry's death has become rather a difficulty for me, you see. The president of the Council is well acquainted with the Lowrys. Even though the boy was an agitator and deserved every lash of the whip, it's become ... a small problem. If I could capture the Indigo Blade, the Lowry incident would be forgotten."

  He turned humorless eyes down to her. “What can I say to make you reconsider?"

  "No
thing,” Penelope said calmly.

  "I have a gut feeling this Indigo Blade is one of us. He might even be here tonight. All I'm asking is that you keep your ears and eyes open, perhaps ask a few questions."

  Penelope smiled up at Victor. Even though she had no interest in politics, she had more respect for a man like the Indigo Blade, a man who fought for what he believed in, who liberated condemned men and then disappeared into the night, than she would ever have for Victor Chadwick.

  "Faith, m'dear, whatever are you doing in the garden? It's much too cool for you to be out of doors without your cloak."

  Maximillian's voice was false and much too high—and a splendid sound to Penelope, at the moment. Victor looked over his shoulder and scowled, and she took the opportunity to rise and step around him.

  Her indifferent husband had rescued her, and he didn't even know it.

  "We should dance together at least once, for appearance's sake, don't you know,” Max said as he led Penelope to the dance floor. The fingers he held were delicate and cool, all but lifeless in his hand.

  When he'd seen Chadwick and Penelope speaking, it had disturbed something deeply buried and most unwelcome. It was jealousy, a possessiveness he didn't dare acknowledge. When he'd watched them step into the night together, his jealousy had exploded into a white-hot rage.

  And now, charlatan that he was, he danced with his wife with a half-smile on his face and nothing—absolutely nothing—in his eyes.

  The minuet was unbearably slow, and his wife moved with uncommon grace.

  "What were you and your chum talking about in the garden?” he asked lightly, as if he didn't care.

  Penelope looked up at him with a flawless and falsely innocent face. Good God, she was beautiful. Her dark eyes wide and trusting, her perfectly shaped lips inviting. The sight of her was as astounding as it had been on the night they met. At times he was certain this effect she had on him would wane. At other times he was certain he would never rid himself of the curse.