The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  He listened closely to Penelope's footsteps in the passageway, listened as she opened and closed the door to her own bedchamber.

  How could he ever apologize for condemning his wife, the woman he loved, without so much as giving her a chance to explain? If only he'd gone to her when he'd heard the news and asked her what had happened, they could have avoided so much pain and heartache.

  Penelope would never forgive him, as he would never forgive himself.

  John slipped into the room, opening and closing the door quickly. “Let's take a look at that,” he said without preamble.

  With care, Max lifted the flannel nightshirt to expose black breeches and the wound. “How is she?” he asked as John peeled away the makeshift bandage that had been slapped on as he'd quickly changed into these ridiculous nightclothes.

  "Your wife?” John shot dark eyes upward. “She's distraught, teary-eyed, and sniffling. I guess she thinks you're dead. I mean, I guess she thinks the Indigo Blade is dead. Confusing, isn't it?"

  John returned his attention to the scratch at Max's side.

  "She was magnificent, wasn't she?” As John poked gently at his wound, Max actually smiled. “Magnificent, and valiant. A truly ... Ouch!” His hint of a smile vanished with the pain. “Mind those clumsy fingers."

  John glanced up briefly. “Sorry. Continue. You were talking about Mrs. Broderick. A truly ... something."

  Max scowled. “A truly remarkable woman."

  "I think she's sweet on you,” John mumbled as he rebandaged the scratch.

  "Of course she is; she's my wife."

  John looked up with a wicked gleam in his dark eyes. “I mean the other you."

  It was true. Penelope had no idea who the Indigo Blade was, and yet she cried for him even now. She'd admitted to her admiration, and then allowed a stranger to kiss her fingers without so much as a demure protest. A stranger!

  "Chadwick has Tyler."

  "No.” John gasped, his humor fleeing quickly.

  "He's using the boy to blackmail Penelope. I promised her I'd see Tyler freed."

  "I'll find out where the lad's being held, and we'll have him out of that bastard's hands by tomorrow night."

  "Yes. And make arrangements for Tyler to be housed in Cypress Crossroads for the time being. He'll be safe there."

  Outside Max's window, Chadwick and his soldiers were making all kinds of racket, searching the garden for a body, and in the process destroying any semblance of a trail the Indigo Blade might have left. It was almost enough to bring a smile to his face. Almost.

  "When are you going to tell her the truth?” John asked as he made his way to the door.

  "After Tyler's safe,” Max whispered. He had no choice but to wait. Penelope's brother was her one true weakness, and if Chadwick upped the stakes, Penelope would do anything to save him, sacrifice anyone...

  Even her husband.

  Penelope sat on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in her cloak. No candle burned, no fire blazed in the fireplace, but the moonlight breaking through the window illuminated the chamber sufficiently.

  Even though the window was tightly closed, she could hear Victor and his soldiers searching for the man he'd shot, searching for the Indigo Blade as if he were a hunted, wounded animal.

  Tears ran down her face, silent, desperate tears she couldn't stop. Why had he come back? Perhaps his appearance was meant to provoke Victor, another move in their dangerous game. And then again, perhaps he'd come back simply to prove to Victor that his extortion had been successful. Perhaps he'd believed by showing up he'd buy Tyler another day of safety, and for that she could only thank him.

  But he was hurt, wounded, bleeding—perhaps even dead. Penelope looked down at her white hands, palms upward. More blood on her hands, he'd said. Only this time it was true.

  "How's a body to sleep with that racket going on?"

  Penelope glanced up to see her husband lounging in the doorway, dressed for bed in his flannel nightshirt with that Turkish-inspired banyon draped over his long, lean body.

  "I'm sorry,” she whispered, trying and failing to hide the tears in her voice.

  "Not your fault, m'dear,” he said as he stepped into her room. “It's that damned Victor Chadwick and his bloody soldiers."

  She nodded silently.

  Maximillian approached the bed slowly, and when he was close to her he reached down and pushed the hood back and away from her face. His hand settled warmly at her damp cheek. “Do you want to tell me why you are crying?"

  If only she could. If only she could tell Maximillian everything. Telling him about Tyler would be a waste of time. What could he do? Nothing. He'd shown no interest in sharing her pain up to this point; why should she expect that to change now? All talk of politics bored him, as he liked to remind her.

  Telling him that she shed tears for a man she didn't know would confuse and perhaps even anger him. He didn't trust her, didn't trust their tenuous love. After all, he'd already accused her of carrying on with the butler.

  After a long interlude, she shook her head.

  Instead of leaving her alone, as she'd expected he would, Maximillian sat on the bed beside her. “I hate to see your tears, m'dear,” he said lightly. “Faith, they break my heart."

  "Do they?” She looked at Maximillian, a man she loved and did not know, a husband who was a stranger to her.

  "Yes."

  He kissed her, softly, without demand, and she leaned into the caress and closed her eyes. When his arms went around her—strong, reassuring, and somehow tentative arms—she accepted this comfort and placed her head against his shoulder. Her body was taut as she held back the tears that wanted to flow.

  Maximillian's hand settled in her hair. “But cry,” he said softly, “if you must."

  She slipped her arms around his waist and held on. Her compassionate husband, unaccustomed to the role, flinched and became rigid as she held him, but as the seconds ticked by he relaxed, and his arms tightened.

  She sobbed, just once, with her head against his shoulder and her arms holding on tight.

  "It's all right,” he assured her once again. “Cry, scream, rail against the world for awhile. You deserve it."

  She didn't ask him what he meant, but allowed the tears she'd been holding back to fall freely. The sobs came, loud and terrible as if they were ripped from her very soul.

  Maximillian held her, rocked back and forth with her body enfolded securely in his arms. With her face against his shoulder all was black, and yet the room was spinning. As her world was spinning, out of control.

  As her tears slowed, so did the comforting sway. But the arms around her were secure and steady. Warm and comforting. Maximillian held her tight, as he whispered an assurance that all would be well.

  She wanted to believe him, but she knew nothing would be well. Victor still had Tyler, and the Indigo Blade was wounded and possibly dying.

  And there was nothing she could do.

  Mary sauntered down the stairs, warm and well rested, truly happy for the first time in months. Perhaps years.

  She wasn't yet ready to examine the reason for her happiness.

  Even though it was late, Beck was just now laying out breakfast, and neither Penelope nor her husband was anywhere in sight.

  Dalton was there, though, appearing shortly after she arrived in the dining room.

  "Good morning, Miss Seton,” he said formally.

  "Good morning, Dalton.” She couldn't help but smile. Beck snorted and left the room. “Where is everyone this morning?"

  "Sleeping off last night's excitement, I imagine."

  Her smile faded. “What excitement?"

  "It seems Mr. Chadwick was in pursuit of the Indigo Blade last night, right here in the pleasure garden."

  "And I slept through it?"

  Dalton gave her a very informal and wide smile, revealing straight white teeth and a devilish side to his personality. “You must be a deep sleeper."

  "Sometimes,” she adm
itted. Last night she'd had wonderful dreams, sweet dreams she wouldn't have wanted to leave. But the Indigo Blade!

  "There was quite a commotion beneath your window last night,” Dalton said with a smile. “A shot fired, soldiers ambushed and captured. Why, it woke the entire household. Almost the entire household."

  "I missed it,” she said sullenly. “I slept through it all.” Of course, she wasn't sorry to have missed seeing Victor, not sorry at all. It was a good feeling, not to be sad and tortured and miserably unhappy in the name of love.

  But it would have been exciting to actually see the man who called himself the Indigo Blade!

  Dalton pulled back a chair at the long table and waited for her to take her place. She walked toward him, this butler who'd been a visitor to her dreams last night, and took her seat.

  "Perhaps,” she said as he backed away, “you could tell me all about last night's adventure.” She glanced over her shoulder to where Dalton stood by the door. And against her will, her heart skipped a beat.

  Penelope dabbed at an imperfect flower in the mural, glad to have an outlet for her restlessness this afternoon.

  She'd awakened well into the morning, after falling asleep, crying, in her husband's arms. Maximillian had removed her cloak and her shoes and her stockings, and had tucked her beneath the satin coverlet. And then, of course, he'd left her alone and returned to his own bedchamber. She hadn't seen him since, and it was well after noon.

  Holding her and allowing her to cry was the first true kindness her husband had offered for quite some time. He had been, for the first days she'd known him, the friend she so often needed, the strong shoulder she wanted. How had he finally known, last night of all nights, how very badly she needed him?

  The mural that would one day encircle the parlor was slowly taking shape. It would take several more weeks, perhaps months, before it was complete, but she was in no hurry. This was a task she loved.

  But her arms grew tired, and she was having a difficult time concentrating today. She turned to place her brush with the others, and there—amidst the paints and brushes—was a stark white folded sheet of paper, sealed in red wax.

  There was no name visible, but it was intended for her, she knew it. She took the paper between trembling fingers and held it for a long moment. It was from him. She knew that as well.

  How had it gotten here? It hadn't been there when she'd started painting, and she'd heard nothing while intent on her work. The Indigo Blade or one of his company must have slipped into this room so silently she heard nothing.

  She broke the seal and unfolded the paper. There was no address, no incriminating name at the top of the page. The words were simple, and with the reading of those words a burden was taken from her.

  I am well. When my task is accomplished, you will be notified. If you need me for any reason, hang a yellow sash from your balcony and I will be there for you. Same time, same place. Be brave.

  There was no signature, but for a small dagger drawn in the lower-right-hand corner of the page.

  The Indigo Blade wasn't dead or dying; he was well. A smile came across her face. And he would free Tyler and let her know when the deed had been accomplished.

  She could be brave, now.

  "Faith, m'dear, I didn't sleep a wink,” Maximillian said, stepping into the parlor and yawning widely. While his eyes were closed and he held a hand to his mouth, she slipped the treasured note into the bodice of her dress.

  Max's side ached and burned, he hadn't been lying about getting no sleep, and John had not yet been able to locate Tyler. And his wife had just very surreptitiously hidden the note from the Indigo Blade.

  Ah, there were roses in Penelope's cheeks, a small smile forming on her lips. Would she tell him of her escapade? Of her secret encounter with that notorious rebel the Indigo Blade? He thought not.

  "The Huntlands are having a dinner party tomorrow evening. I know you've been feeling less than sociable of late, but I think we should accept."

  "Of course,” she said, most agreeably.

  The letter he'd written had obviously soothed her, as it was meant to. Garrick had delivered it himself, certain that he could sneak into this room and leave the note without Penelope ever being aware of his presence. Evidently he had succeeded.

  "Your disposition is much improved today,” he said, stepping into this parlor Penelope had made her own domain. “Why, last night I thought you to be inconsolable."

  Her smile was constant. “No,” she said, stepping toward him to lay a hand on his arm. “You consoled me very well, and I thank you."

  "Faith, m'dear,” he said, his irrational anger and his feigned inflection fading. “'Tis surely a husband's task to soothe his wife when she is downhearted."

  It would do his heart good if she would confide in him now, if she would tell him of the blackmail and the meeting and the letter she'd secreted in her bodice.

  He had no right even to wish for such a confidence, but he could not make himself stop. With this woman at his side he had so much ... and so little. Too much of their life together was false. There were too many lies, too many secrets.

  Penelope said nothing, but came up on her toes to kiss him quickly, a soft brush of her lips against his. It was a healing gesture, perhaps, as last night's commiseration had been a healing gesture.

  But would Penelope want the healing to continue when she learned the truth?

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twenty

  She could have gone to the dinner party with Penelope and Maximillian, putting on a pretty gown and a false smile for her friends. Mary Seton rarely declined a social invitation, but as Victor would likely be in attendance, she'd pled a headache and stayed in for the evening.

  This was such a big house, with tall ceilings and large rooms and open spaces. Maximillian had expensive taste, in useful furnishings and decorative ones. Some of the porcelain was surely Chinese, and she'd never known anyone to be so extravagant with expensive fabrics. Every window was draped in heavy satin that pooled on the floor.

  It was a good house to wander through on a quiet evening.

  By the light of the single candle she carried, Mary wandered into the great hall, that rarely used room at the front of the house that was as formal as Penelope's parlor was cozy. It was a room built for balls and musical entertainments, for brightly lit days of celebrations.

  Mary had always loved parties, crowds and laughter, dancing and flirting, but she was in no mood for such frivolity tonight. She needed time to gather her thoughts, and to do that she had to be alone. For now, she was glad for the quiet.

  "Your headache is better?"

  She spun around to find Dalton standing directly behind her, his hands behind his back, his livery as crisp as it had been this morning. Goodness, she hadn't heard a sound, and as he didn't carry a candle to light his way through the cavernous house, she'd had no warning of his approach.

  "Gone entirely,” she said softly.

  "I see."

  She couldn't see Dalton's face nearly well enough, so she took a step forward and held her candle high.

  "To be perfectly honest,” she said when his face was sufficiently illuminated, “I never had a headache at all."

  "I thought not."

  "Victor would likely be there,” she explained, “and I have no desire to see him ever again, let alone share a meal at the same table."

  What might have been the beginnings of a smile turned the corners of his mouth up. “I'm glad to hear it."

  Dalton thought she had spurned Victor's advances and was afraid. Would he hate her if he knew all she'd done? The intimacies, the manipulations in the name of winning Victor's love, the deceit—the hate that had grown as Penelope discovered happiness and Mary had not.

  Mary found she didn't hate Penelope anymore, didn't blame her cousin for all the troubles and disappointments that had come to her life. In fact, she felt sorry for her cousin. Penelope had problems of her own, difficulties she
wouldn't discuss.

  One day, when she had the nerve and another place to go, she'd tell Penelope what had happened the night Heath was captured. She hadn't realized what a burden the deception would cause. What pain for Penelope, and the Lowrys, and Mary herself. She hadn't known...

  That was a lie. She'd agreed with everything Victor said, believing he'd come to love her, wanting more than anything the love that man was incapable of giving.

  And now she cared nothing for Victor. Well, perhaps not nothing, but a bond had been broken, a burden cast off. She was learning to let love go, as Dalton had advised.

  "Are you?” she asked. “Are you glad?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  His hint of a smile vanished. Gone completely as he lifted his hand to her face. “Because you deserve better than anything Victor Chadwick has to offer you."

  But she didn't deserve better. Mary knew, even if Dalton didn't, that she didn't deserve anything at all.

  The hand at her face, a gentle and undemanding hand, was almost as exciting as the kiss—the light brushing of lips that had set her heart to racing. She'd dreamed of that kiss, of the weak-kneed feeling a hint of a touch had stirred to life.

  Dalton moved closer, stepping in until he towered over her. He took the candle from her and set it on a table at his side, and then he slipped both arms around her and lowered his face to kiss her again.

  She didn't object, but parted her lips to savor the sensations Dalton brought to life. As before, his mouth was gentle and teasing, but instead of disappearing this time, he stayed with her. His arms tightened, his mouth grew bolder, and soon there was nothing else in the world but the two of them and this kiss.

  Her arms crept around him, holding on, searching for warmth and comfort. She'd never felt this way, as if she were floating, flying, soaring above the earth in Dalton's arms.

  It was Dalton who broke away. Slowly and with a regret she could feel. “We should stop now,” he said hoarsely.