Lord Bramblehurst's mouth silently formed the word: twenty. Twenty pounds. Not twenty thousand.
Merry smiled. "You can pay me the next time we see one another," he said. "In the meantime, I've a ball to attend."
Eversley was hot on his heels as he strode out of the club. "What in the blazes are you doing, man?" he demanded.
Merry shrugged. "Delia told me she would be at the Fletcher masquerade."
"Delia," Eversley said. "Delia Ditherfield? The reason you've been throwing your money away in gambling halls? That Delia?"
Merry nodded.
'The Delia you could be proposing to with twenty thousand pounds in your pocket right now? That Delia?" Eversley could hear his own voice rising. “Did you not realize you won twenty thousand pounds, not twenty pounds, Merry?
Merry stopped to look in either direction, to avoid the horses; then led them across the street.
"I realized. I also realized I could not go to her like that," he said. "That if I came to her with twenty thousand pounds from a fool's bet, I'd be no better than a fool. I would always be thinking that I could solve the problem, with just a bit more money, a bit more luck."
“Bramblehurst is good for it,” Eversley said. “He just needed to get to his solicitor. He did make the bet.”
“I know, but that isn’t the point is it?” He turned the corner and they made their way through the London streets, toward the Fletcher residence.
“What is the point then?” Eversley asked.
“Love,” Merry said. “Love, old boy. But you knew that all along didn’t you?” He slapped Eversley on the back.
The residence was illuminated by thousands of candles, beaming out into the darkness. Carriages lined the streets, slowly moving forward to empty their occupants. Eversley could hear the strains of the music playing within, the laughter.
"She's worth more than that," Merry said. "Delia is worth more than a bit of luck."
He moved forward, pushing through the carriages and up the stairs. The two men were evidently undressed for a masquerade ball, but one mention of the Duke's name gave them access.
Delia Ditherfield was standing in the corner. She appeared to be intently scanning the crowd through her mask. When her eyes fell on Merry, she stilled. He walked forward and took her hand and bowed over it.
"Miss Ditherfield," he said. "I've been an ass."
She looked down upon his head. "Yes," she said. "Yes, you have been."
He looked up. "Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" he asked.
Miss Ditherfield smiled. "I will," she said. "I love you dearly. But right now, I'm afraid I'm slightly distracted."
Merry straightened. Eversley could tell he was slightly astonished that Miss Ditherfield had not leapt into his arms, sobbing.
"Er," Merry said. "What seems to be amiss?"
"I'm assisting Miss Markham and Miss Quinby," Miss Ditherfield said.
Eversley, who had begun to turn away, he was not especially concerned with Merry's betrothed's distractions, stopped. He turned back.
"Miss Markham and Miss Quinby?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Miss Ditherfield nodded. "We overheard something the other day, at Vauxhall. Well, Miss Quinby recognized the voice, but could not understand. Fortunately I speak French." She pursed her lips. "So I translated. But I should not say more," she said.
"French?" Eversley asked. "You overheard French?"
Miss Ditherfield nodded.
"Where is Miss Quinby now?" Eversley asked tightly.
Miss Ditherfield lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. "I believe she wrote to you," she said. "And visited. And yet, you ignored her. Why should I tell you? Do you suddenly care?"
Eversley ran a hand through his hair. "I deserve it, I know," he said. "But please, tell me. Where is she now?"
"The Frenchmen were going to meet someone," Miss Ditherfield said. "Here. At the ball."
At the ball. At the Fletcher mansion? Where?
Then he remembered: the ladies in Hyde Park, asking all sorts of questions about decoration.
"The Rose Room?" he asked.
Miss Ditherfield nodded.
"Where is she?" he demanded. "Where is Miss Quinby?"
"She's hiding," Miss Ditherfield said. "Waiting to catch them out."
"The bloody fool," Eversley said, and then dashed from the room.
~.~
Chapter Seven
Her feet were numb. Georgette carefully shifted and tried to rub the top of one of her feet with the other. She felt as if she'd been waiting for forever. Perhaps the masquerade had ended, and it was dawn, and all the guests had departed, and she was still waiting like a fool behind a curtain.
No. Fanny and Delia would have come and found her.
Wait? What was that?
It was the creak of a door. Then there was the sound of boots on the floor. The individual made their way to the fire. Soon enough, the room was much brighter; Georgette could tell by the greater glow at the base of the curtains. She held as still as possible, breathing softly and gulping in her nervousness.
There were several minutes of silence then the sound of another party entering.
"Here we are," a voice said. It was the Frenchman. Georgette could recognize the lilt of his accent.
"Let's make it quick," the Englishman said. "I need to return to the ball. I will be missed."
"But of course, monsieur," the Frenchman said. "Very well, may I see the list?"
There was the sound of rustling and then a pause. "You won't have this in your hands until I see my money," the Englishman said.
"Oui, very well." There was the sound of something being dragged on the floor, and what she believed was a lid opening. "Like a pirate, no?" the Frenchman said. "You may count it if you like, although I must warn you, counting that many coins may take you considerable time. We will be here all night."
The other gentleman grunted.
"And so you must trust me," the Frenchman said
"I suppose that is my only choice," the Englishman said. "Very well, here is the list."
There was the sound of someone stepping forward.
"Merci," the Frenchman said. Then he coughed, a strange wet sound.
What should she do? She could not let the Frenchman take it. Why had she thought she could hide in the Rose Room? What had she thought to do? In her mind it had been simple: she would suddenly leap forward and put a stop to it all. Now was her chance. She must do it. Why hadn't she at least brought a pistol or something with which to threaten them? She was a lone woman and she had no way to stop this, and yet, she had to.
Georgette pushed the chair forward and stepped out from behind the curtain.
"Sto--" she cried. And then the words died on her lips.
Lord Fletcher was standing in the middle of the room, holding a dagger, which he had just thrust into the Frenchman. He pulled the dagger out. The Frenchman gave one final wheezing sound and then slumped heavily to the floor, his eyes glazing.
"Well, well, well," Lord Fletcher said. "What have we here?"
It was odd, Georgette thought, how she had never actually heard Lord Fletcher speak before now. Up until this point, she had only ever seen him from afar. Although, she supposed she had heard him before. She just hadn't known it was him at the British Museum.
And now he was advancing upon her with a bloody knife.
Dozens of thoughts flashed through Georgette's mind at that moment: she wished she had brought something to defend herself with; she wished she had arranged for better back up than Fanny in her peacock outfit; she wished she had been more demanding with Eversley, that he listen to her; she wished she had never insisted she and Delia follow and eavesdrop on the Frenchman; she wished she had never gone to the British Museum, that she had never picked up the note in the potted plant; she wished she had never turned around in the garden at the scent of a cigar and seen the Duke; she wished she had never fallen in love with Sebastien; she wis
hed she had never run up those stairs; she wished she had never thought to die. She didn’t want to die.
Not true. You don't regret any of it; except maybe death at Lord Fletcher’s hands.
"Don't you dare," she said to Lord Fletcher.
He stopped for a second, likely taken aback by the audacity of an unprotected woman, telling him not to stab her. She figured it was worth a shot.
"I will scream terribly loudly," she said. "You have no idea."
"No one will notice a scream," he laughed. "The din from the ballroom will drown it out."
She moved, putting the chair in between them.
"Go on," he said. "Scream." He waved the knife at her.
Good God, he was truly demented. And not afraid to murder, if the Frenchman's demise was any indication.
Then he screamed. It occurred so suddenly, Georgette barely knew what had occurred. One moment, he had been stepping towards her, knife in hand. Then there was a thin sword, slicing through the air, onto his arm. The knife he had held, clattered to the floor, and Lord Fletcher let out a terrifying, high-pitched squeal.
Georgette blinked at the knife, and at the man who was clutching his arm. She followed the tip of the sword back to the man holding it.
"Hello, Eversley," she said. She attempted to sound calm, but feared the tremble in her voice betrayed her.
His eyes were aflame. He was breathing heavily, staring at Fletcher. He pointed the sword, which he had unsheathed from his walking stick, towards the man's heart.
"Traitor," he said. His voice was low. The tip of the sword nudged up against Fletcher's heart.
"Eversley," Georgette said. "Please don't."
"Oh, I won't," he said. "As long as he keeps very very still."
Georgette stepped forward, towards the Frenchman.
"What are you doing?" Eversley asked. "Get away from him." But he did not move, he kept his sword trained on Fletcher.
She leaned down and began rifling through the Frenchman's coat pockets, trying to ignore the fact that she was doing this to a dead man. She was carefully trying to avoid the blood. There was quite a lot of it.
"He gave it to him," she said to Eversley. "He gave him the list."
"It was likely a fake," Eversley said. "I imagine he planned to kill the man as soon as he had his money."
Ah. She found it. Carefully, she pulled it from the Frenchman's waistcoat. She unfolded it, skimming the list of names. There was Eversley. She looked up. Eversley was on the list of spies. How long had he been a spy for England? In France? She wondered. Was this his penance after Blanche’s death? Was that why he stayed away so long?
"Well?" he said. "Can you deduce what it is?"
It had to be a list of spies.
"What type of fool would write them all down?" she whispered horrified at the thought of what could have happened if this list fell into the wrong hands, as it very nearly did.
Eversley gave out a short laugh. "We do not question His Highness."
Fletcher moved, and then stopped.
"Don't test me, Fletcher," Eversley said. "Do. Not. Test. Me."
"Do you need it?" Georgette asked.
"Need what?" Eversley asked.
"The list," she said. What did he think she was asking about?
"Do you need it?"
~.~
Chapter Eight
The list? He furrowed his brow. When she had asked if he needed it, he was not entirely certain what he thought she meant. Her? Was she asking if he needed her? He did. He needed her. He had not realized how much until he had burst into Fletcher about to run her through with a dagger.
Was she asking if he needed Blanche? He needed Blanche, he did. She was his wife. She was his wife and he had loved her and lost her and the pain had been unbearable. He could not do that again. He could not lose another love. He could not bear it.
No, she was asking about the list. All of the spies for the crown, gathered together into one place. A single tiny piece of paper, worthless on its face, and yet so terrifying powerful. Anyone with those names...oh, the things they could do, the lives they could destroy.
"Burn it," he said.
"Very well," she said.
He could hear the soft tread of her slippers, and then she came into view, moving towards the fire. She leaned down and tossed it in. He could see it catch fire and burst into flame.
Miss Quinby straightened. The fire illuminated her, and for a moment she looked like a vengeful angel, so different from Blanche, and yet so beautiful.
"He killed him," she said. “Fletcher killed him.”
"He was a spy for the French," he said. "It was not an entire loss."
"He was a man," she said. "Fighting for his own country. And he killed him. After he had betrayed his own."
She walked over to stare down at Mr. Fletcher. "What kind of man are you?" she asked.
Fletcher stared back at her disdainfully. "So easy for you," he said. "The Mad Heiress." He laughed. "Never wanted for anything."
She looked up at Eversley. "That's not true," she said. "I've wanted." Then she looked back down at Fletcher. "What a horrible man you are, my lord."
Fletcher snarled.
"Get up," Eversley said to the man.
Fletcher slowly raised himself up, while Eversley kept his sword trained upon him.
"There," Eversley said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
And then, with practiced motion, he clocked Lord Fletcher with a stiff upper cut. The man's eyes rolled back and he fell to the floor.
"Heavens!" Miss Quinby said. "Was that absolutely necessary?"
"It was if I wanted to easily tie him up," he said to her. "Can you reach for the rope holding the drapery?"
~.~
Chapter Nine
Miss Quinby went to the windows and pulled the rope down. She didn’t have vapours, in fact, she was remarkably cool through the whole ordeal he thought with pride. She handed the tie over to him. He carefully knotted Fletcher's hands behind him. Then he pulled off the man’s cravat and used it to gag him. He drew back and stared at the two men now resting on the floor, one dead, one bound.
What was he to do with them? How was he to successfully remove them from this room without drawing suspicion? Anyone could walk in the door at any moment.
He would have to send Georgette to find Mr. Murphy. In the meantime, there was a small closet off to the side. He could remove the men there.
He turned to speak to Georgette. He could look at her, now that Fletcher was handily tied up.
"I need to send word for assistance, but am loathe to leave Fletcher unattended, even bound," he said. "First, I need to move the men into the small closet next door. Then, if you could be so kind, as to go to my residence, which is not far and locate either Mr. Murphy, or my footmen, Joseph or James. Tell them to send word to White and then come here. That would be much appreciated."
"Send word to White?" Miss Quinby asked.
"They will understand what it means," he said to her. "But first, might you assist me with Fletcher's feet?"
The man was still out and unresponsive, but was likely to awaken at any moment. He lifted his torso and motioned to Miss Quinby, who grabbed the gentleman's feet. Carefully, they shuffled to the door. Miss Quinby set his feet down, slowly opened the door, and then peered out.
"The coast is clear," she said. "Let me open the closet first. Would be a dreadful shock if we were to open it and discover two servants, enjoying some time together."
He snorted. Leave it to Miss Quinby to be practical at a moment like this.
She ran forward and opened the closet door. The small space was blessedly empty. Together, they carried Fletcher in and closed it.
The Frenchman was more difficult. Miss Quinby covered the stain on the carpet by moving one of the decorative tables, and they were careful to keep the rest of the mess away from their clothes, but not entirely successful. Slowly, they raised the body up and began moving to the door.
Then
he stopped. The noise outside the door had changed.
"Miss Quinby," he said, "I believe we might have a slight difficulty."
~.~
Slight difficulty? Was the man serious? He was holding a dead body --a dead French spy, no less-- after knocking out the traitor, and he was speaking of slight difficulties? She had blood on her dress, she'd almost been stabbed, and he was speaking of slight difficulties?
Then she heard it. There was a din just outside the door.
"Oh," she said. "Oh no."
Later, when asked by Fanny what prompted her to do it, Georgette would say she was not entirely certain. But the thought that had swept through her mind was that the Duke could not be seen doing this, that someone had to stop them.
She dropped the Frenchman's feet and ran.
Lady Fletcher was known for her sumptuous supper spreads, and reveled in their dramatic display. The supper hall, therefore, was closed to ballroom guests until supper was announced. The guests would then file into the hallway and up the stairs and await the dramatic opening of the doors for entry. This was what was occurring now. The guests were beginning to ascend the stairs. From the bottom of the stairs, they could see neither the Rose Room, nor the supply closet. Once at the top, at the point where they would enter the supper hall, however, the view was clear.
They would see everything.
No, Georgette thought. No.
She rushed forward to the top of the stairs, her arms outstretched, gesturing at the ball guests all to stay back.
"If you all could please stay back," she called out. "For just a few moments." She craned her head back to look at the Rose Room. She could see Eversley slowly dragging the Frenchman to the closet.
She turned back to the crowd. The mass of ball guests had frozen in shock. They stared up at her, several mouths hung open, jaws slack. It was a sea of dominoes and masks.
She still had her mask on, she thought. Perhaps they would not realize who it was.
"It's Miss Quinby!" someone said.
No such luck. She groaned.
The Mad Heiress and the Duke – Miss Georgette Quinby: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 1) Page 12