Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1)

by Muir, L. L.

  “An errand? Outside the house?” Stella’s hand froze as she reached for the brush.

  “Of course. I am not a prisoner here.”

  “Of course not, my lady.” Stella looked doubtful, but picked up the brush and set herself to her task.

  The Scarlet Plumiere felt a little doubtful herself. But the insults ringing in her ears pushed her on. Despite her earlier decision to let the matter drop, to cease playing cat and mouse with the Earl of Northwick, she could not retreat now.

  Silly man. He thought he was the cat.

  ***

  “"My lady, will not you consider waiting for Mr. Hopkins to return?”

  The Scarlet Plumiere stopped with one foot on the carriage step. "Why would I need to wait for him?”

  Stella stammered. "Perhaps he can see to your errand for you. Perhaps I can!” Her eyes were wild. Poor thing had not seen Livvy leave the house without her father since joining the staff a year before.

  “Stella, I assure you there is nothing to worry over. It is not as if I’ll be strolling in Hyde Park. I have one stop to make, then I will return straight away.”

  “You will not let me come along, my lady?”

  “No. It is something I must do alone. Of course John will be with me. I will be perfectly safe.”

  Her dutiful maid gave the large carriage driver a warning look that made the poor man swallow nervously. Perhaps she’d underestimated the girl’s mettle.

  “Are you sure you should leave your father, my lady?” Stella was so busy wringing her hands, she had forgotten herself.

  “If my father needs comforting, find The Rat. He will be perfectly happy until I can return. And the only danger I am in at the moment is that of freezing to death.” And with that, she pulled the carriage door shut before the maid could force her way inside. Livvy checked her reticule to be sure she had not forgotten the letter in all the quibbling. It was there, tucked neatly in the pink lining of her mother’s pearl studded reticule. It smelled of the woman. Next to the letter lay a perfume laden handkerchief, forgotten for three years. She pulled it out and held it to her nose, rubbing her fingers over the stitches that created a border of tiny blue flowers.

  “I wish you were here, mama.”

  But that was not entirely true. She would love to have had her mother at her side through her ordeal, but she doubted she could have played the role of her own savior had Lady Telford been hovering about. The woman had been so clever. After the first post by The Plumiere, her mother would likely have recognized her daughter’s handiwork and been too proud to keep her discovery to herself.

  So, motherless and unable to disappoint her mourning father, she had thought of a way to fend for herself. And with no daughters of her own, Lady Malbury had jumped at the chance to help. Too bad The Plumiere could not risk spending more time with the woman who ran The Capital Journal. Someone would surely suspect her. And if suspicion reached the ears of Lord Gordon, she would be dead in a week.

  The carriage made its way deeper into the city, though she dared not sit too near the window to see what might have changed since last she was out and about. She and her father spent only half the year in town, but since the scandal, she only saw it on her way to and from their country home. Perhaps that was why it always seemed The Great City in her eyes; it was a great mystery she would never have a chance to solve.

  She caught sight of a hack for hire and was blessed with inspiration. Without a parasol, she rapped on the wall with her knuckles.

  “Stop the carriage! John! Stop the carriage!”

  The big man obliged and was at her door before she reached for the handle.

  “What is it my lady?”

  “Hand me out.”

  “Here, my lady?”

  “Yes, here. I wish to hire that carriage to take me the rest of the way. Do not be offended, but I cannot risk someone recognizing this carriage when I arrive at my destination. Trust me on this.”

  “But, my lady—”

  “No buts about it, John. Wait for me here.”

  John did not wait, however. He abandoned the carriage to accompany her to the hack, then paid the man.

  “Thank you, John,” she said as he helped her into the hack.

  “Hopkins will have my head in a basket. Just see if he don’t, my lady.” And with that, he closed the door.

  The hired driver opened the hatch. "Where to, Miss?”

  The street on which The Journal was located was particularly congested that day. Whether or not that congestion was usual, she could not say. The last time she had set foot inside the building she had been clutching that first letter in her hand and a prayer in her heart that she might find someone inside those doors willing to help her.

  Traffic came to a complete stop and those memorable doors still a half-block away. It was such a cold day she was not even tempted to walk, even if she had had the nerve to do so. She reached for the window, conceding a breath of cold air might bolster her courage a bit. Beyond the glass, a man sat on the steps outside The Journal, holding up a paper, as if reading, but avidly watching the crowd instead. Not far from him, a man leaned against a pillar, acting in much the same manner. Were they watching for her? Was she incredibly vain to think such a thing?

  A woman started up the steps and three men came to attention, the two she had noticed, and a third young man who stood near the roadside, presumably to earn a coin by holding horses. But he was not watching for customers; he was watching the lady. With his head, the man on the steps gestured for the young man to follow her. The boy had taken only a few steps when another man caught up to the woman and took her elbow—likely her husband. The boy fell back to his post.

  Dear heavens! They were watching for a lone woman. A woman like her! She could not go inside now, no matter if the trio might only be a band of pick-pockets and not spies sent by the Earl of Northwick. And she certainly could not trust anyone to deliver the letter for her. There was too much at risk—her work, her very life! Better for her to just go home and stew in her anger until her usual messenger could come for her letter. She only trusted him because the lad worked for Lady Malbury. No doubt he believed Lady Malbury was carrying on an affair with Papa.

  The hack lurched forward and she moved back against the seat, watching the watchers as she neared the wide set of steps and suddenly, the hack stopped! She’d forgotten to tell the driver she had changed her mind!

  All three men turned their heads. The young one, near the road, tried to see into the depths. He seemed to look directly into her eyes! The hack shook. The driver was there in an instant, opening her door, holding out a gloved hand. The boy moved close, tilting his head one way, then another.

  “My lady?” The driver peeked inside.

  “No! I have changed my mind,” she whispered loudly.

  “Eh?”

  “Take me back. This instant!”

  The boy lunged for the door as it snapped shut. She held onto the handle as if her very life depended upon her ability to do so. The hack rocked wildly as the driver mounted, nearly pulling the handle out of her grasp. Still the boy tried to open the door.

  “Dear Lord, help me!”

  “‘Ere, now. Get away from there. That’s a lady inside.”

  The driver’s whip descended with a whack. The pulling ceased. But suddenly the boy’s face was against the window. She quickly turned her head away. The hack lurched forward and the boy disappeared.

  Had he seen her? Would he recognize her again? Could he describe her to someone—say, Mr. Lott?

  The driver’s voice came from a small hole in the roof. "My lady, be warned. That lad still follows. I cannot get away from ‘im in this ‘ere crowd, y’ see.”

  “I understand,” she called out, assuming the driver would hear.

  “Do you still wish to return to your carriage?”

  Her carriage? And John!

  “Yes, to my carriage. Hurry if you please!” Her heart would surely explode, beating as it was.

>   What might happen once the hack stopped? Surely John would not harm the boy, but how would she be able to keep the lad from giving her away?

  The hack sped up and gave her hope. She peeked out the window but could not tell if she was still pursued. She imagined the boy running but unable to keep up. Giving up. Turning back. She took a deep breath, then another. Her heart did not slow its beating. They turned left at a corner. Then left again, and once again. The hack came to a halt, and the door opened instantly, but it was John leaning into her view.

  “Grateful I am, my lady, that you did not dawdle. I might have worried myself plum to death, I might.”

  “John!” She took his hand and his help.

  “‘Ere now. She is been followed, she has. And there’s the blighter now!”

  She looked up and saw the driver pointing his thumb behind him. Then she looked around John to see the young man, hands on his knees, catching his breath at the corner. John pushed her behind him, then headed for the boy.

  “No! John, I forbid you to harm him. Let me speak to him.” John stopped, his mouth open on an argument. She hurried past him and only got nervous when she realized the boy was walking toward her, not intimidated by John in the least.

  She slowed. He kept coming. When she took a step back, the boy stopped. He looked around her, not to John, but to the coach. She stepped sideways to block his view. Only then did he seem to notice her and gave a little bow. "Please forgive me, my lady, if I frightened you. It is not my job to frighten you.”

  She was no judge, but he looked to be about 15 years old.

  “It is only your job to find out who I am?”

  He grinned. "It is, my lady...?”

  She laughed. "Oh, no. I will not make it easier for you.”

  “It was worth a go?” He grinned.

  She laughed again, but sobered. "My very life is in danger, young sir.”

  He frowned, looked offended. "You are in no danger from my master, I assure you.”

  “But if your master succeeds in unmasking me, there is another lord who will come to murder me.”

  The lad looked at her askance, likely trying to decide how truthful she might be.

  “I realize it is just a game to your master, but it is a deadly game. He does not realize how many others anxiously wait for him to point me out.”

  John’s heavy footsteps came closer. Without looking, she reached back a hand to stay him.

  “I recognize the carriage,” the lad confessed.

  “You do?” Her stomach sank. Was it already too late?

  He took one last look. "Yes, I do.”

  “Please,” she said simply and put a hand to her heart.

  The boy stopped smiling. Eventually, he nodded.

  She walked forward, took his face in her hands, and kissed him on the cheek. He pulled away, hopped backward and turned, sprinting back down the street. When he rounded the corner, his hand was pressed to his cheek, as if holding the kiss in place.

  “My lady!” John stuck his elbow in front of her, giving her little choice but to take it.

  She sighed. "He was a handsome boy. I should have kissed him on the lips.”

  From the sounds he was making, she thought John might have swallowed his tongue. She released his elbow to pound him on the back.

  “I was jesting, John. Only jesting.”

  But of course she had not been jesting at all. It might have been her only kiss and she had gotten it wrong! She may as well have been kissing her own hand.

  When the carriage arrived home, Stella was huddled in a thick shawl, standing at the window. She opened the front door before Livvy reached it.

  “My lady, Mr. Hopkins said he would like an audience as soon as you returned, if it is convenient.”

  “Oh? Of course.” She handed her mantle to Chester, then followed Stella. John followed her. No doubt the big man was eager to tattle on her for the reckless kissing of a street boy. But he had not been a street boy at all. He had been dressed well enough. Not liveried, but dressed well. Was his master the Earl of Northwick? Would the boy be bullied into telling her identity? Would he tell his master about the kiss?

  Oh, dear heavens, what a fool she would appear in the papers tomorrow.

  She shook her head. Better not to lose faith in the boy before he had had a chance to prove himself. He had nodded. That was as good as a promise. Either way, she would know in a day or two, as soon as Mr. Lott responded.

  She passed her father in the hallway. He nodded but did not stop chattering to the maids at either side, telling them the tale of how he had met his bride. It was his favorite story, always leaving him in a fine mood. She smiled, wondering if the maids had encouraged the recitation or if it had come to him on his own.

  Stella preceded her to her father’s study where she found Hopkins sitting behind the desk. It was unusual, to be sure, especially when the butler rose a bit slowly when she entered.

  “What is the meaning of this, Hopkins?”

  John came in and closed the door. Stella moved to the other side of the room, joining the gardener, the cook, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Wheaton. Hopkins rolled his eyes and shook his head, then he moved to one side and indicated the chair he’d occupied.

  “Please, my lady. Sit.”

  Stella took great interest in her own boots. No help there.

  “Very well.” She took her seat and tried not to look as confused as she felt. "I have had a rather tiring day, Hopkins. I hope this will not take long.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, my lady, but it will take as long as it must needs take.” The man lifted his chin and rested his fingertips on the desk. Had he raised his voice? Hopkins? His face was a bit redder than usual. His nostrils flared.

  “Why, Hopkins! You are angry with me!” She laughed. "You have not been angry with me since I was, what, twelve?”

  “Fourteen, actually.” He cleared his throat. “But that is neither here nor there.” He cleared his throat again. Stella poured him a glass of water, but he shooed her away. "You left the house.”

  “Yes. I did. And before John is forced to tell you what transpired, I will confess all. I forced him to stop and hire a hack for me, and then proceeded to mysterious places without him.” She lowered her voice for effect. “When I returned, I had been followed by a young man. I demanded that John allow me to speak with him, then I kissed him and he went away.”

  “You kissed John, my lady?” Hopkins turned to find the driver trying—and failing—to blend in with the mahogany-paneled wall.

  “Not John. The young man. I only kissed his cheek.” She stood. "If there’s nothing more...”

  “Sit.”

  Hopkins had not ordered her to sit in a good ten or twelve years, but she had been trained well by that tone of voice that said, I do not care who your father is. You will behave as a lady.

  She sat.

  “So, you felt so compelled to run your errand that you left the house without a chaperone, then abandoned your only protector behind with the carriage and galloped into town.”

  “We could not gallop,” she mumbled.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

  “I said, we could not gallop. There were too many rigs on the road. That is why the boy was able to follow.”

  “Ah. I see. So we can place the blame squarely on the shoulders of all those who chose to drive on Shetland Road this morning.”

  Livvy felt as though she’d just been struck in the stomach.

  “How could you possibly know which road I chose?”

  “You went to the offices of The Capital Journal did you not?”

  “Were you having me followed Hopkins? Truly?”

  Hopkins closed his eyes and took a patient breath. "No, my lady. There is no need to have you followed. Correct me if I am wrong, but there is only one place The Scarlet Plumiere might be tempted to go these days.”

  She suddenly experienced a dozen prickles inside her nose, then behind her eyes. It was no wonder tear
s filled her vision.

  “You know?”

  “Yes, my lady. Only those of us in this room.”

  Stella and the others beamed and nodded.

  “And you have told no one?”

  “Of course not, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Hopkins. Thank all of you.”

  “Not at all. Not at all.” He took that glass of water from Stella then, and took a long drink. "Now, who is this young man you kissed, and where is your next letter?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Capital Journal, February 5th, Evening Edition, Fiction Section,

  And so, in The Great City, a certain Mr. Lott publicly slanders a writer, insinuating not only her lack of virtue, but also the lack of proper supervision by a husband who may or may not exist, and then only until Mr. Lott hunts him down and ceases that existence. What then, Mr. Lott? Will you take the place of this deceased man and beat his wife in his stead?

  Beware, any young ladies who might have imagined to find happiness at the side of anyone known as such, for Mr. Lott will no doubt beat his wife and children regularly and with the support of his fellows! —The Scarlet Plumiere

  Soon after the evening edition arrived at Northwick’s residence, Viscount Forsgreen sent word that he had news to impart and for North, Ash and Harcourt to await him at White’s Gentlemen’s Club. A short while later, North sat in a comfortable chair in a private corner, sipping on a brandy and marveling that he could not, for the life of him, remember his ride across town. Had he walked? Ridden? Flown?

  Flying would not surprise him in the least, as hopeful as he was that his search was at an end. In fact, if he had not stuffed himself into a rather over-stuffed chair, he might at that moment have been flitting about the room like a bird looking for access to the sky. The large establishment had hardly enough room to contain his excitement. And there was little or no space available for worry; the fact that Stanley had not hinted whether the news might be good or bad hardly registered.

  Ashmoore and Harcourt arrived, followed soon after by a disappointingly sober Viscount F. North’s hopes took one look at Stanley’s face and promptly fled through the front window. When they plummeted to the street below, North winced.