Lord Fool To The Rescue Part 6

"Fine. If you insist."

He looked a bit disappointed in her choice of words, then took up her gloved hand and sighed. Speechless for once?

She took pity.

"I'll say yes to you now, but I'm going to wake in a moment and this will have been a nightmare."

He smiled. "You mean a dream."

"No. I mean a nightmare."

"Now who is the one who's teasing?" He pulled her close and kissed her on the tip of the nose. "You'll still have to call me Your Grace, of course. Sometimes, in private, you may call me Lord Fool."

She frowned and tried to push him away. He was having none of it.

"Will it make a difference that I shall also be addressing you as Your Grace?"

"It might." She grabbed his cravat and pulled him close. "Kiss me, Lord Fool."

THE END.

BLOOD FOR INK.

Book One of The Scarlet Plumiere Series

CHAPTER ONE.

Capital Journal, Fiction Section, Friday, February the First A rumor currently circulates among the gentry in Londonberry that the white/blond Viscount of F had a visitor one recent morning, or rather, visitors, as the woman who claimed to be his wife brought with her a pair of identical offspring closely resembling the earl himself. Piercing blue eyes and straight white hair adorned both cherubs whose mother was blessed with the dark hair of her pure Spanish ancestors.

Not believing the woman, or his own eyes it seems, The Viscount of F shooed the little family from his n.o.ble steps and into the halls of a certain hotel where they have taken up residence until a higher authority might be able to hear their tale.

It was also rumored that the mistress of Viscount of F has moved out of his grasp as she deemed it unwise to a.s.sociate with a man who possesses untrustworthy...eyes.

Stay tuned to see if the current fiancee of this poor-sighted creature is also saved from his company.-The Scarlet Plumiere "Well, Stanley, you can't very well sue the paper for libel when they did print this in the fiction section." Ramsey Birmingham, Earl of Northwick kept a straight face, but only just. His friend was not the first to be chastised by the red-penned writer. That he was being so dramatic about it, so early in the day, was an invitation for torment.

"But North! I tell you there was no woman. No wife. No children with my blue eyes and white hair."

"White hair, even. Not blonde." The Marquis of Harcourt prodded poor Stanley from behind, then walked around the man and offered him a much needed drink.

"It's early." Stanley waited for someone to agree.

"Drink!" Harcourt slapped him on the back, nearly spilling the shot of courage.

Stanley needed no more prompting and emptied the gla.s.s, then stared into its empty depths. "Yes, white hair. There are no such creatures, I a.s.sure you. I've only been to Spain two years ago...oh dear."

"Well, the vixen got that right at least." Earnest Meriwether, the unfortunately named Earl of Montpelier, chimed in from the far stacks of North's immodest library.

"But Monty, I'm telling you, there is no such woman." Stanley looked at a chair, but North shook his head, as if to say the morning's business was so serious he should keep on his toes.

Stanley straightened and lifted his chin, poor man. So easily manipulated. The Scarlet Plumiere really shouldn't have picked on such a harmless chap. North was of half a mind to hunt her down and tell her so.

"Well, the Scarlet Plumiere has yet to accuse an innocent man, even if she is a bit inaccurate on the specificity of the crime." Monty joined the rest, eyes fixed on an open volume of Shakespeare-the red leather set. He took the seat Stanley had wanted.

"He's right, of course. Let's hear it, Stanley. What have you done?" Harcourt hooked a leg over the corner of a table and leaned forward for the details.

Of course, Stanley broke.

"I've done nothing! Nothing the rest of our lot hasn't done from time to time."

North couldn't bring himself to prod the Viscount further. The poor man had asked his three closest friends to meet that morning to find a solution to his newest problem-as fresh as the morning paper. They really should get to the business of helping the chap.

Harcourt was in no such hurry.

"Stanley, you're trying our patience. Spit out the confession now or I don't see us making much of an attempt to save your sorry hide."

Stanley flushed from his pinned cravat to the roots of his transparent-like hair. The color hardly became him.

"I set Ursula aside yesterday."

"You what?" Three baritones in unison sounded almost rehea.r.s.ed.

North shook his head. "I'm sorry, old boy. You did what?"

"He set her aside."

North turned to Monty. "He set her aside."

"Yes, blast you. I set her aside."

Monty closed the book and set Shakespeare on the overstuffed arm. "Pardon my slow wit, but just how does one put an Ursula aside?"

Monty was right. Stanley and his hair had had the pick of women since they were all in knee breeches together. Now he had the pick of all mistresses and he'd chosen very well. It was quite possible Stan, old pal, was the first man to actually end an affair with the woman. Ursula did the shopping for a new lover. Ursula let that lover know when he was no longer welcome. But Stanley Winters, Viscount Forsgreen, had set her aside.

"I suppose he picked her up by the shoulders, turned, and set her down again." Harcourt demonstrated with an invisible model, then dusted his hands. "Out of his way, presumably. Is that accurate, Stanley?"

Stanley's blush looked to be seeping into his actual hair.

"I let her go."

"Aah. Like fishing, then? You took the hook from her mouth, so to speak, and put her back in the water." North couldn't help but laugh at Harcourt's miming skills.

"Can she swim, do you suppose?" Monty was ever concerned with details. In exact opposition to his given name, he was obsessed with remaining sober and somber. But no longer. He dissolved into laughter at his own jest, as did they all.

Stanley stood straighter, if possible. "You know perfectly well what I mean. I ended our affair. I told her she was free to do as she pleases."

North nodded and composed himself. "And you paid her a nice settlement, of course."

"Actually, she wouldn't take it. She wasn't at all pleased that I offered it."

Harcourt bent over, giggling, and dove onto the davenport.

"So, you have slighted Ursula." Monty sobered. "That has to be it! Ursula found the Scarlet Plumiere and had you punished. Severely punished, it appears; if night follows day, and things play out the way the SP has predicted, you, my dear Viscount of F, are about to be released from your engagement."

"But that's why I let her go, you see? It would be poor form to keep one's mistress while one is preparing for marriage, and honeymoon, and fatherhood, and..."

"And death." Having solved the mystery, Monty's nose was back in the book.

"Yes, that too. If Irene Goodfellow breaks it off, Mother will have me fed to the fish, and even though she's doddering, she'll find a way to bear another son to replace me."

"It's unsettling the way that woman tosses that threat about," North admitted. "It fairly gives me nightmares thinking about it."

"Well, thinking about it has put me off seeing Ursula."

"Quite so. Quite so." But what to do about it?

"It would be best to have her put down, Stanley. For your own good," Harcourt mumbled against the cushion.

"Who? The Scarlet Plumiere? I can't have a woman murdered, even if she's essentially ruined my life with her blasted article. I can't believe you'd suggest such a thing."

"Oh, not her, man. Your mother." Harcourt rolled onto his back and spoke to the ceiling. "Have your mother put down like the old horse that she is and enjoy the reprieve. Marry in another ten years."

"Put down my mo...you're mad!"

"No. Actually, it wasn't a bad idea a'tall." Monty closed his book again and tossed it onto the table.

"All right. You're both mad. I won't be having my mother...put down, for G.o.d's sake."

"Oh, Stanley. Do keep up." Monty folded his hands and grinned. He must have had a grand idea. "I mean the SP, of course, not your dear saintly horse-of-a-mother."

"You mean it? You can stand here in front of G.o.d and good whisky and talk of having a woman murdered? Because all of London knows it's a woman writing those articles. Good lord, man. Perhaps I don't know you at all. Perhaps you could actually do the deed yourself!"

"Oh, I would rather not do the deed myself, of course. But I suppose if I must..."

North couldn't take it anymore. He tossed up his hands.

"I surrender as well, Monty. What are you thinking? You can't be talking about having a woman murdered."

"Not murdered. Put down. Taken out of the picture-or the Capital Journal at least." Monty leaned in and lowered his voice. "The only way to control a woman these days, gentlemen, is to marry her off."

Harcourt rolled back onto his face and mumbled, "I was afraid you would say that."

Callister stepped into the library with a small box tied with string. North nodded his butler over and reached for the package, but the old man shook his head.

"I beg your pardon, my lord, but this just arrived for Viscount Forsgreen."

Something yawned and stretched inside North's breast, something that had been sleeping for years. Usually, when it woke, he drugged it with Brandy until it slept again. He wasn't sure, but it might have been his soul. And with some sort of premonition which he'd never been known to possess, he suspected that thing within him would somehow be affected by Stanley's box.

He watched, as did they all, as Stanley slowly pulled the tails of the string, as if they expected a cat to jump out of it any second.

The string fell away. Nothing happened. Stanley sat the box upon the table, lifted the lid, and set it aside. He frowned, looked at North, then reached inside. He pulled out a pair of spectacles and a bubble burst in North's chest.

He laughed. Stanley didn't seem to understand.

"Who did you tell about this meeting, Viscount F?" Monty had to raise his voice to be heard.

North laughed harder. Watching Stanley's face as realization dawned, struck him as particularly amusing. Or maybe it was the joke played by the Scarlet Plumiere.

"Poor eyesight." Harcourt laughed. "I say, she's a clever minx."

North agreed. The woman was clever. And she might have just won over his heart, if not his very soul.

CHAPTER TWO.

Capital Journal, Fiction Section, February the Third A wild tale is spreading like the black plague through ladies' parlors at this very hour. Supposedly, the men of Londonberry, or at least those allegedly eligible for marriage, have held a meeting in the honor of a particularly talented writer and drawn lots to see who among them is the lucky so-and-so who must not only ferret out the ident.i.ty of said writer, but must marry her in order to control her...uh, plume...thereby removing the threat to his fellows' reputations that might very well be the last resort for some women to find justice in this world.

Bravo, Mr.Lott! Did you think of this scheme by yourself? I cannot imagine a sweeter justice than for the man who imagined such a lottery to be its first selected victim. I say "first" because after you fail at your task, sir, undoubtedly there will be a few boisterous fools who think they can succeed where you are about to fail.

And you've boasted you can find me by Valentine's Day? Bon chance!

If you'd like to read more about North and his search for the Scarlet Plumiere, visit my website www.llmuir.weebly.com and you'll find Blood for Ink on the Regency Book page.

SOMEWHERE OVER THE FREAKING RAINBOW.