Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1)

by Muir, L. L.

  Gordon was the enemy on the horizon. But from which horizon would he come? All roads led to London. He could arrive from any direction. And what of the menace the woman faced in the city? What a fool he had been not to recognize the threat she faced from those gentlemen who had shown up for the lottery, men whose secrets were still well hidden, but who felt the need to protect them.

  Best for her to be protected at all times, and by someone capable of doing so. He was hardly a candidate. Of course he held his own on the Peninsula, but he hadn’t been able to save himself in the end, had he? He’d survived his ordeal only because his friends were too stubborn to give up the search. And when Ashmoore had found him, even in his defeated state, he had been able to rise to the occasion and take his revenge before collapsing. The journey home was a fuzzy memory of waking to excruciating pain when his back had been tended. But gratefully, losing consciousness was a talent he had honed.

  What if that talent should come to the fore while defending Livvy? What if a blow from Gordon, or another, brought on those memories that turned his mind black, made his blood still in his veins while he waited for the memory to pass? What might Gordon do to Livvy in the meantime?

  No. He would never be able to trust himself to be her only protection. And if North should suddenly take up residence in her home along with Ashmoore? Who among the readers of The Journal would fail to assume she was The Scarlet Plumiere?

  And therein lay another threat. Ashmoore would send his carriage home each evening, but if it was discovered the man was residing in Telford’s home, after taking her about on his arm a few times, there would be a new scandal—a scandal that might end in the two needing to marry!

  Good lord! What had he done? It was no better a plan than the lottery had been!

  The carriage ride was a new kind of torture. Staring at the window, trying to discern the reflections of his shopping companions and what might be going on between them, did nothing but strain his eyes. After the pair stared at each other for a ridiculous amount of time, he was unable to stifle a growl, but a moment later, Livvy’s head had turned toward her window and remained there until they arrived. If she had not, he might have been forced to stop the carriage and get out.

  Ash was begging for a good fight, it seemed. And if he did not stop poking at North, deliberately trying to make him jealous, the man would likely go home with a black eye or a towel to his nose.

  Damn the man for knowing him so well.

  And Miss Reynolds was far from innocent in the matter. What the devil had she been thinking, giving Ash one of those looks? Did she have no idea what affect she might have on a man? And just how had she affected Ash anyhow? Had their little moment resembled the one in her garden, where he had so lost himself in the wonderful depths of her deep brown eyes that he had forgotten his purpose?

  Well, he would just make damned sure the dark earl kept that purpose foremost in his mind.

  North was the first to exit the carriage and stood to one side to hand out Stella, but when he turned a hand back to Livvy, Ash already had her firmly in his grasp.

  The woman looked at his friend and blushed.

  What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?

  North turned and pretended not to care, but thought he heard a mild snort from his friend. Perhaps both a bleeding nose and a black eye would be in order before the morning shopping was concluded. Or better yet, directly after.

  “Ash,” he called over his shoulder as the man led his would-be wife up the steps.

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering if you might like to head ‘round to Jackson’s after lunch.”

  “I am not surprised in the least. I am all for it of course.”

  “Excellent.”

  On the top step, Livvy paused.

  “That is where you gentlemen go to fight, is it not?”

  “It is,” Ash said with a grin.

  “Ridiculous.” She mumbled a few other things on her way inside, but one look at Ash told him his friend had not understood a word either.

  ***

  Livvy was relieved to step back onto female territory and leave the fighting dogs to follow—or not.

  “Oh, Miss Reynolds!” Madame Bouchard, Roxelle, set aside her usually professional demeanor and hurried forward to give Livvy a hug. "Lord Northwick, when you asked for a bit of privacy ziss morning, you should have told me it was for Our Livvy. I thought you were bringing in zee Scarlet Plumiere with all your concern for her privacy. I told no one, of course. No use having a mob waiting outside when you leave, n’est ce pas? If I had let slip one word about you bringing a woman for a fitting ziss morning, people would be assuming Our Livvy was the famous writer! Can you imagine the danger to her?”

  “I can indeed. I thank you for making special arrangements this morning. Our Miss Reynolds’ safety is our foremost concern at the moment. Is it not, Ashmoore?”

  Ashmoore stepped forward. "It is, Madame. We are all most grateful.”

  “May I introduce Lord Ashmoore, Madame? Ashmoore, Madame Bouchard.”

  The seamstress practically placed the back of her hand against the taller man’s lips before he could catch it. "Enchanté,” she whispered.

  “Y moi, Madame.”

  “Roxelle, I was only informed moments ago we would be coming to you.” Livvy drew her friend’s attention away from Ashmoore before the woman could do anything embarrassing—for instance, sitting on the man’s lap before he could find a seat.

  The seamstress came to the townhouse every year when she and her father returned from the country, to make sure Livvy was at least presentable enough to run into the street if the house caught on fire. Their yearly appointment would have come in a few weeks, after the rest of the ton had the bulk of their new wardrobes in their clutches and out of Roxelle’s hands. The woman gave Livvy all the glorious details, of course, so she could almost imagine what the dance floors would look like even if she never attended the parties. Those tidbits, along with the notes she received from Lady Malbury almost daily, left her well supplied with information for her articles. With ease, she could convince her readers that she had attended the events, that The Scarlet Plumiere was an active member of the ton.

  “Oh, Livvy, my dear. I am so happy to see you away from zat dreadful house.”

  “Roxelle!”

  “You know what I mean, of course. Dreadful only because you never escape.”

  “Yes, well, we have liberated her now.” Northwick gave Ashmoore a pointed look.

  Ashmoore shook himself and took a deep breath, and she would be damned if he did not become someone else altogether. His face lightened, his brows rose, and she got a glimpse of those bright white teeth yet again.

  “I am very pleased Our Livvy has agreed to let me escort her about the city for more than just shopping.”

  Roxelle’s eyes nearly popped from her face, then she put an arm around Livvy’s shoulders.

  “You must be very careful with Our Livvy, monsieur. She must not be a victim of scandal again.”

  “I will see to it, Madame. But the only scandal endangering her at the moment is a lack of wardrobe for the new Season, is it not?”

  Roxelle clapped her hands and the curtains parted. A model emerged, her attention on the ground.

  “It is quite alright, Michelle. He did not bring zee Scarlet Plumiere. You need not avert your eyes.”

  The girl looked up and curtsied, but did not smile.

  “She would have averted her eyes for The Scarlet Plumiere? I do not understand,” Northwick said.

  “Oui, monsieur. No woman in London would willingly give away the identity of zee Scarlet Plumiere. She saves us all by holding the gentlemen of the city to a high standard, mais non?”

  “But of course.” Northwick inclined his head. "That makes us the enemy then, does it not?”

  Roxelle grinned and curtsied. "Of course, my lord, but I will be happy to take your money without prejudice.”

  “I will be spending
my own money today, Roxelle, no matter what these gentlemen have to say on the matter.

  “But of course.” The woman winked at Ashmoore.

  Ashmoore turned and winked at Livvy.

  What was the man thinking? If he was not careful, Roxelle would believe... Ah. So that was the game. Well, a good game took at least two players and Livvy refused to be dealt out.

  “Let’s get started then, shall we?” But she was not talking about the clothes.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Michelle emerged in a new creation of light pink with a dark pink skirt. Even with the black embroidered flowers, it looked far more appropriate for a sixteen year old, so Livvy shook her head. Then she looked to Lord Ashmoore, who shook his as well. They shared a smile.

  She did not look to see Lord Northwick’s reaction, and after the same happened with the next of Madame Bouchard’s creations, the seamstress stopped watching for his reaction as well.

  Fashion plates were considered while Michelle changed since the other models had been sent along with the rest of the seamstresses for home appointments. Except for Mrs. Fortescue, the milliner, who brought a collection of hats from Lock and Company next door, their appointment remained quite private.

  No one seemed to consider Lord Northwick might like a look at a plate until he stuck his hand out like a beggar.

  The dress he took over-long considering was a frumpy frock with ribbons trailing from a billowy waist. By the time he passed it back to Livvy, she merely placed in the pile of undesirables without asking his opinion. He did not ask to see another plate.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see the man’s hackles rise when Lord Ashmoore reached over to feel a sheer organza Madame Bouchard had draped across her shoulder.

  “Does not ziss white look exquisite next to your hair, Livvy?” Madame sighed.

  “I agree,” said Lord Ashmoore. "Though the garments made from such things should not be ordered with men about, I dare say.”

  Northwick jumped to his feet. "Perhaps we should step outside.”

  “Absolument non!” Roxelle stomped her French slipper. "It will only do harm for Lord Northwick to be seen hanging about my door. And Cherie and I can discuss her delicate lingerie while she is in a dressing room having her measurements taken.”

  “You are perfectly correct, Madame.” Lord Northwick inclined his head. "I will sit here and try to do no harm.”

  Roxelle nodded, as if giving him her royal permission to remain.

  “When I do find my lady writer,” he continued, "we will wish to be married quickly. How long would it take to create something original for a wedding gown?”

  Livvy giggled. "I thought you said you have not yet located The Scarlet Plumiere. You are confident she will have you? And so quickly?”

  “I am confident, yes. I am quite sure we are compatible. She is a clever girl.”

  “And you are a clever boy?”

  “Most days. Today just does not seem to be one of those days.” He tugged at his sleeves.

  She laughed again. "And what color do you suppose is her hair? Will puce look lovely with her skin?”

  Ashmoore opened his mouth to speak, but Northwick stopped him with a quick shake of his head.

  “What have I missed?” She looked to Ashmoore. "I demand to know.”

  “Well, Lord Northwick is hoping she is blond...and less than fairly—”

  “Ash!” Northwick scowled at his friend, then turned to her. “I did not wish her to be blond. Ashmoore and I agreed that to hope for a blond woman would be the safest—”

  “Safest? How so? If she had dark hair like mine, she would put you in some sort of danger?” She felt her spine might snap, but relaxing was not something she could accomplish at the moment.

  “No, no. That’s not what we meant at all.” Northwick stood and began to pace. She was glad to have made him at least a little nervous.

  She turned to Ashmoore. "We?”

  The dark earl held up his hands. "North had created an image of the woman. We thought that if he, we, imagined her the opposite of this image, he, er, we would be less likely to be disappointed.”

  “Truly? You had hoped...The Plumiere would be a brunette?”

  “A beautiful brunette,” Ashmoore added.

  “Of course.”

  What man would not require his wife to be beautiful? For a heartbeat, she wished her face were a bit lopsided, a bit swollen. She wrinkled her nose at Northwick and he immediately blushed.

  “I assure you, her appearance has no bearing.” Northwick looked off, seeing something that was not there. "I am sure, somehow, I will recognize her.”

  “How can you say so, since it is likely the two of you have already met?” Such a statement was dangerous, but she could not resist pointing out the error in his logic.

  “Perhaps.” He had lowered his voice, sounded almost reverent. Good heavens but the man was in love!

  Perhaps it was her duty to prepare him for disappointment.

  “And perhaps, if she is such a clever woman, you will never find her,” she said gently.

  “Perhaps.” He began a close examination of the blue lace circling the crown of a particularly horrid hat from the brim of which dangled a bird that appeared frozen in death rather than frozen in flight.

  “Can your honor not handle such a blow?”

  His eyes raised to meet her own. "Can my heart?”

  The room went silent. No fabric rustled in the back rooms. No fashion plates tilted and slid from their piles. For once, Ashmoore was in no hurry to torment his friend.

  Madame Bouchard came forward and took Livvy’s hands from her lap.

  “Come, Livvy. Let us see if your measurements have changed much in a year.”

  Northwick raised his hand to get their attention. "I beg your pardon, ladies, but I think perhaps it would be better for me to go now, so when Miss Reynolds departs she is seen with only Ashmoore.” He turned to his friend. "Take care of her.”

  “I will.”

  The dark earl suddenly seemed her personal knight, pledging his life to see to her safety. But as Northwick bowed and walked to the door, she realized the knight she very much wanted, the knight she could never have, was the one leaving.

  The door closed slowly. She felt like that road of possibilities, the one from her dream, had just closed for her as well. But it was a blessing. At least now she could stop tempting herself.

  Was it the after taste of her breakfast or the memory of a certain caper that left her tongue bitter as she preceded Roxelle through the curtains?

  The heavy velvet drape creating the fourth wall of the dressing room muffled the sound of the street and whatever little noises Ashmoore might make. Even the air seemed soft around her as she undressed. In the distance, perhaps at the millinery, a door squeaked slowly open.

  Roxelle held a pencil between her teeth but managed to say, "Zat is only Michelle, leaving.”

  Finally, the woman measured six places on each arm and wrote the numbers in a small notebook. "You are a little smaller this year. I hope you are eating enough, Cherie.”

  Livvy laughed. "I am. And far too many capers.”

  Roxelle raised her brows in question.

  “Pay me no mind. It was a private jest.”

  “Shall I call for your maid?”

  “I can manage with this dress, I think.”

  “Then I will go upstairs and record your measurements in my secret notebook, then I will burn this page. Some people might commit murder for a peek at another woman’s numbers.” The woman backed through the curtains and was gone.

  The velvet fell into place and she reached for her dress. It would be nice to have some warmer gowns this year, no matter that she would have few places to wear them. The winter was mild, yes, but there was a chill in her bones that might have nothing to do with the weather. And there was a draft in the room, she realized, as she pulled her dress over her head. Before she made her way through the bodice, the light next to the m
irror went out. The thick velvet prevented the light from the hallway from penetrating the darkness except for a jagged line above the curtain rail.

  She was not too worried. She had no problem buttoning her front in the dark. Then she reached out to push the velvet aside and a hand gripped her own while another covered her mouth! A man stood behind her, pulling her back against him!

  “Do not scream, Miss Reynolds. It is only I,” a deep voice whispered in her ear, pouring dark chills down her neck, continuing through her, all the way to the floor. "You know my voice by now, surely.”

  She nodded her head carefully, and he took his hand away.

  “How dare you,” she hissed, no more anxious to have his presence discovered than he would be. “What if I had screamed?” She tried to turn but he held her shoulders still, held her against him.

  “I think you are of sterner stuff, Livvy, even if you pretend not to be.”

  She dared not respond to that. She had done a poor job at acting the part of the simpering miss who had needed The Scarlet Plumiere to save her. The man should have suspected her by now. He was just so blinded by that image in his head—so blinded he did not realize that image might resemble her!

  “I have never given you permission to call me by my Christian name, Lord Northwick.”

  “North. Please.”

  “I am sorry, my lord. I could not possibly.”

  “If I kissed you, you would have to call me North.”

  “You will do no such thing,” she hissed, even though she prayed he would do just that. She should not encourage him. She should not lean her head back against his collar bone, but she did. What in the world had come over her?

  It was the darkness. It had to be. If there was even a hint of light, she would not dare act as she was. But perhaps that was a trick men used.

  She tried to straighten but was immobilized by chills as first his hair brushed against her ear, then his breath skimmed over her neck. Warm lips against her shoulder turned her knees to liquid and they melted beneath her.