Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (14 page)

“I will
not
let you duel any of my brothers!”

It was a ridiculous statement, but she was surprised when it summoned a faint smile from him. “You’ll sting me to death to prevent it?”

This was not the Walgrave Lisette knew, but the hint of him made Elf’s lips unsteady. “I’ll do anything to prevent it. You are part of our family, deny it as you will. I will not let you kill in such a cause.”

Suddenly his expression turned blank. “Are you saying your concern is for
me
?”

“Well of course it is! You never asked to be entangled in any of this, and it isn’t fair that you suffer so. I can’t imagine that you will feel better if you manage to kill Rothgar, and it certainly won’t be easy to do.”

“I might feel better if he killed me.”

The flat tone caught at her heart. What could be so dire that he wished to be
dead
? Had his plan to force Bryght into a duel last year simply been an attempt at suicide?

“Poor Elf,” he said, almost gently, touching her cheek, “you’ve turned pale and I am a wretch for invading your blithe existence with my dark soul.”

After her time as Lisette, such a fleeting touch should not have startled her. It was the first time Fort had done such a thing to Elf Malloren, however, and her whole body quivered like a brushed harp string. His expression was different, too. Still somber, but not cold.

“Take comfort, then,” he said. “I will cease trying to harm the Mallorens. I have been considering the matter for some time and you have just opened my mind. There are more kindly ways to carry my new responsibilities. Unless your brothers offend again, they are safe from me.”

Trapped in incoherence, Elf could only say, “Thank you.”

“ ’Tis nothing,” he said lightly. “And it frees you to devote your energies to stinging yourself a husband before you crumble entirely into dust.”

With a brief kiss on her knuckles, he bowed and left her tumbling in a torrent of emotions.

When she realized she was just standing there, Elf forced a light smile and strolled back toward her aunt as if supremely at ease. For comfort, she seized on the easiest emotion. Anger. Plague take the man for getting in the last word!

That was such a minor part of it, however, that it hardly mattered.

Suicide. He had considered killing himself or putting himself into a position where someone else could be depended upon to do it for him. Was that time past? His talk of more kindly ways offered hope, but it didn’t really address self-destruction.

And what of his promise to end the feud? That should be unalloyed delight, and yet her heart ached.

Absorbed by her thoughts, she changed course, for the ladies’ retiring room, hoping it would be empty and a suitable spot for contemplation.

Apart from two maids who stood ready to offer assistance, it was deserted. Elf settled on a sofa, fanned herself, and looked into a bleak future.

How strange that the most meaningful conversation she had ever had with Fortitude Harleigh Ware could quite likely be their last.

Where in the future would they meet? Despite his appearance here, Fort had little taste for balls and soirees. Elf rarely attended masculine events to do with sports or politics, and she certainly didn’t visit gaming houses and brothels.

She should be delighted by the end of the feud. Considering the dangers caused by Fort’s enmity, she should be relieved that he had abandoned it and would cease meddling in her family’s affairs. Instead, she was painfully upset because they would rarely meet. Clearly her feelings for him were more serious than she had ever imagined.

And he thought of her as a stinging pest.

She considered two recent occasions when the whirling social eddies had thrown them together. Guiltily aware that her family was in some way at the root of his gloom, she had tried to lighten it. Perhaps she had become a little barbed as he clung to bitterness, but had she really been
waspish
?

Perhaps she had. But if it took a sting to shock him out of his dark isolation, she didn’t regret it. In fact, she would apply it again!

Truth was, she thought wistfully, she’d enjoyed their
few encounters even when she’d thought him surly. From first meeting she’d been intrigued by him, and aware of her physical response.

And now, because of Vauxhall, his insubstantial attractions had very real form. His body, his mouth, his taste could be summoned at will. In fact, they crept into her mind, will or not, at unlikely moments.

More powerful perhaps than her knowledge of his body was that she had come to know
him
. She had seen him, really seen him, at ease with others. A phantasm of the man he could be, should be, haunted her mind. Not a saintly man, but one capable of consideration, kindness, and humor.

One capable of joy.

With a wry smile, Elf remembered both Chastity and Portia claiming Fort had those virtues. They had been proved correct.

But what should she do in the future to help that promising young man triumph over the dark, embittered cynic?

With a start, she remembered the Scots and treason. It was all tangled up together, though, for in the end she wanted Fort to be a carefree young man. She doubted he’d be that when facing noose or ax.

She rose and checked her appearance in the mirror. Duty called. She must apply her mind to catching the traitors.

Then, perhaps, just perhaps, she would sting Fort again and see what happened.

Fort’s visit to the Devonshire ball had not cured his restlessness, for now Elfled Malloren was even more of a distracting presence in his mind. Perhaps his father’s insanity had been the type to run in families.

Elf Malloren!

No less suitable lady could be imagined, but for a moment there he had wanted her. Not physically, though she was well enough he supposed, but possessively. He’d wanted her for his own.

The madness had struck when she’d said she was worried for
him
. He’d thought her devotion, her cheerful affection, reserved for her family. He’d envied them that. His sisters cared for him, but their family past left scars on all of them. Theirs wasn’t the unquestioning love Elf wrapped around her brothers.

The thought of having that warmth for himself, of having someone who would believe in him, trust him, who would care, and smother every shadow in smiles and chatter . . .

Gads. He’d used to think her chatter irritating, hadn’t he?

Now, however, he realized it was her weapon of choice.

Fort muttered a curse and rapped the roof of the carriage. When his coachman opened the trap, Fort directed him to drive to the establishment of Signor Angelo, the most noted instructor in duello in England. Even at this late hour, Angelo would not turn away his wealthiest student.

Fort had become a regular at Angelo’s, practicing to kill Mallorens.

“Why at this hour, my lord?” asked the Florentine, leading the way into his practice room, a large, plain chamber. The only decoration here came from the masks and weapons hanging on the walls. The empty space echoed their movements like a cavern.

“Whim,” said Fort, stripping off his coat and waistcoat. “Ten times your normal fee, Angelo.”

Dark eyes bright with interest, the swordsmaster bowed and went to light the wall sconces all around the room.

Fort took off his shoes, chose a mask and a foil, and stood ready.

“Whom do you want to kill now, my lord?” asked Angelo, moving
en garde
opposite.

“Perhaps you.”

Angelo laughed, saluting with the foil. “
Buone fortuna!
But I will not kill you for your impudence. I agree
to your excessive demands, my friend, only because I do not want to see you dead at the end of a sword before you have found your way.” He lunged, Fort parried, riposted, and the bout was on.

“Tonight,” said Fort, pressing his attack, “I do not want to kill. I am just restless.”

“Aha!” cried the Italian, dancing backward, blade clicking and hissing in counterpoint to Fort’s. “It is a woman. At last, my friend, it is a woman!”

“Damn your eyes, it is not!” Fort shouted, but then saved his breath as the swordsmaster executed a lightning move and he found himself hard-pressed.

To evade Amanda’s perceptive eyes, Elf breakfasted in bed the next morning.

She tried to keep her attention on treason, but found thoughts of Fort exploding in her mind like fireworks, making everything else invisible. It was his pain, she decided, picking at a currant bun, that had brought her to this state. At the Devonshire ball Fort’s cynical mask had slipped to show her he suffered. She couldn’t bear anyone to be in such pain.

Pondering it through a sleepless night, she’d decided that the roots of the problem must lie in the matter of his father’s death.

Before inheriting his title, Fort had been brash and fun-loving, if inclined to easy anger. With his family in crisis, anger had taken over, but there still had been none of this dark bitterness. That had only emerged after the tragic masquerade ball.

Grief for his father?

She didn’t think so. He lived under something darker and more twisted than grief.

With a grimace, Elf wiped crumbs from her fingers with the linen serviette. She hadn’t eaten a morsel, and had no appetite to try.

Thinking back to the masquerade in November of last year, she realized that she’d paid shockingly little attention to the fourth earl’s death. She’d not been in the hall when the shot had been fired. Immediately afterward she’d been busy tending to Princess Augusta and some other women who had fainted. As soon as the
ball ended, she’d thrown herself into arranging Cyn and Chastity’s wedding.

Now she wondered exactly what had happened to affect Fort in such a malignant way. She would have to find out. She suspected there would be no peace for anyone until she did.

With frustration she realized this too would have to wait until one of her brothers turned up to tell her exactly what had happened.

Where on earth were they? Three days had passed since she’d sent messages. At least one of them should be here by now. Everything was becoming too complex and intertwined, too hazardous for one person to handle, even a Malloren.

What were those servants up to? She’d heard nothing. Suddenly she wondered if Grainger had ignored her instructions and kept reports from her. If so, she’d have his head! She rang for Chantal, then slid out of bed and dashed a note to Grainger demanding a report.

The maid’s first command was to take the note to a footman to be delivered posthaste.

Once dressed, Elf went downstairs to find that Amanda had gone to visit her old nurse, leaving a pile of invitations for scrutiny. Elf flicked through them without interest. The social whirl seemed increasingly pointless, though she was restless enough to want entertainment.

She was restless enough to pace the room for hours, waiting for word from Grainger, but instead she forced discipline upon herself. She sat in the sunlight with a piece of delicate stitchery, just as a lady should.

Thus innocently occupied, she set to a tight analysis of the treasonous plot and her choice of actions. Instead, her mind kept twisting away to Fort as if seeking something in particular. Suddenly she tossed down her needlework and hurried back to hunt through the pile of invitations.

Aha! She pulled out the one teasing her mind. Lady Yardley was holding a masquerade. Lady Yardley was a very proper matron and her entertainment would be
nothing like Vauxhall. Why, then, had it caught Elf’s interest?

Then she realized where her wanton mind was traveling.

Lady Yardley was Fort’s aunt. That might mean he would put in an appearance. More to the point, at a masquerade she could be Lisette again. If he attended, he might recognize her scarlet and gold and seek her out. Perhaps in that setting Elf could meet the smiling, kindly Fort again.

Of course, she would risk exposure, which would be embarrassing and could even be dangerous.

Excitement warred with nervousness, holding her there staring at the engraved card until she was jerked out of her thoughts by a knock at the door.

Amanda’s footman entered. “A person by the name of Roberts wishes to speak with you, milady.”

Roberts?

Who was Roberts?

Then Elf remembered he was one of the Malloren servants set to watching Fort. She puffed out a breath, relieved to have something practical to drag her out of insanity.

You have a possible threat to the king in your hands, she silently berated herself as she hurried after the footman. Yet all you can think about is dressing in scarlet and seeking out a wicked night with Fort Ware!

With luck, Roberts knew where the Scots were living. That would give her some control over the situation.

The footman took her to the housekeeper’s parlor, where Roberts waited, dressed in the breeches and frieze coat of a respectable tradesman. He must surely blend into the crowded streets without trouble. It was comforting to see such expertise.

His words were no comfort, though.

“Nothing much to report, milady, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing?”
Elf subsided into a chair in disappointment.

Roberts shrugged. “The earl’s doin’ what an earl does,
milady. And the people in ’is house agree with that. Nothin’ fishy at all, really, ’cept that a few nights ago he brought home a doxy who gave him the slip. Or at least,” he added, rubbing the side of his nose, “she wasn’t there in the mornin’ and he seemed put out about it.”

Elf prayed her cheeks weren’t turning pink. “I can’t see how that is of interest.”

He took it as a rebuke. “Sorry, milady.”

“What of watchers?”

“Nothin’, milady, though it’s a busy street so it’d be hard to tell if they’re clever about it. They might even have a spot in a house nearby. A couple of the girls say they
sense
somethink. But you know women—” He broke off, diplomatically studying the wall.

“Indeed I do,” said Elf dryly. “So, they think there might be watchers but none of you has detected them. Is no one watching the house at night? I’d think that would be easy to spot.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, milady, but why would they watch his house at night when he’s in his bed? If anyone’s interested in his doings, I’d think they’d follow him as he goes about by day, and that’s not easy to spot with so many others around.”

“So there’s nothing.” Elf felt almost sick with disappointment and worry. Perhaps the time had come to go to someone in authority and tell what she knew.

Tell what, though? That a man named Murray had discussed what sounded like a Jacobite plot to kill the king. And that the Earl of Walgrave was involved. And that she’d learned all this while in the Druid’s Walk at Vauxhall, pretending—for no adequate reason—to be a Frenchwoman called Lisette Belhardi.

They’d toss her in the madhouse!

“ ’Cept a room in the cellars the earl keeps guarded.”

Elf started out of her thoughts. “What?”

“Seems the earl ’ad somethink put in a room in ’is cellars a few days ago, milady, and ’e’s set two men
to guard it. They don’t know what’s there, though. No one does.”

“Could it be a person?”

Roberts shook his head. “No food nor water goes in. And it wasn’t no bigger than a baby anyway, wrapped up in heavy cloth. Want us to try to get a look at it?”

Elf tried to imagine what it might be, and failed. “Could you, without creating a stir?”

He rubbed the side of his nose again. “It’d be tricky, milady. There’s only one key, you see, and the earl keeps it on ’im. And the men he ’as guardin’ it are honest. But I can ask one of our people in there to try.”

“Do that, then, but they’re to take no risks. I don’t want the earl to even suspect he’s being watched. Now, what about the Scots? Did you make inquiries at all the inns?”

“Aye, milady. There’s any number of Scots around—they not being so scarce these days, more’s the pity—but none of ’em match your description of this Murray.”

Elf puffed out a breath. If a plot truly existed it could be rolling ahead at speed and she was no further forward. She’d been beginning to think it all a phantasm, but that mysterious package at Walgrave House revived her concerns. She tried to imagine what a mighty earl might keep in a locked and guarded room to which only he had a key. It would have to be something important and potentially very dangerous.

Fort, after all, had servants to handle nearly every aspect of his life, even the most personal. He would only be so directly involved in something intensely secret.

Something treasonous.

She had to know what Fort was keeping in that locked room.

She realized she’d risen to pace the small, cluttered room, and that Roberts was watching her curiously. Be damned to that. Her mind had found an intriguing and dangerous path.

One person might be able to find out what was in that
room—a certain scarlet lady named Lisette. But only if Lisette became Fort’s mistress.

She stopped, staring sightlessly at the empty fireplace. Her mouth had dried and her heart raced, but a tingle of delicious delight danced along her skin. Almost complete, a plan was forming in her mind that meshed her earlier longings and her duty to the king.

It promised all kinds of benefits.

It also threatened danger.

It required that she do something very wicked indeed, but something she’d been wanting far longer than she’d ever dreamed . . .

“I think we should try to draw them out,” she said, amazed at herself.

“Beg pardon, milady. What did you say?”

Elf considered the plan again, and sucked in a deep breath. “Tomorrow, Lady Yardley is holding a masquerade ball at her house in Clarion Street. The earl will almost certainly put in an appearance since Lady Yardley is his aunt.”

How calm she sounded, yet her heart was racing like a mad thing.

She continued: “A woman will attend dressed in a scarlet-striped gown over a scarlet petticoat and a black, red, and gold stomacher. At some point before the unmasking at midnight, she will leave with the earl. If any of these Scottish gentlemen are watching, they will quite likely try to take some action then, if only to follow the couple closely. This will give you a chance to spot them.”

Roberts scratched his nose, understandably dubious. “Who is this woman, milady? And why would these Scotsmen come out of hidin’ as soon as she appears?”

Elf put on a frosty Malloren look. “She is another servant of the Mallorens, that is all you need to know. Just be sure that if the Scots show themselves, you do not lose them. If they should attack the woman, you must protect her. But try to take prisoners rather than to kill.”

It felt extremely strange to be speaking so calmly of
mayhem and violence, but Roberts didn’t seem alarmed. He merely nodded. “Very well, milady. Any other instructions?”

“Just be sure to note anyone who shows especial interest in this lady and the earl, and find out where they are hiding themselves. Keep a particular eye out for this Murray.”

“Right. Medium build, mousy-blond ’air.”

“Exactly.”

“And the woman, the one in scarlet?”

“Will be merely a decoy. As long as she’s not in danger, you can ignore her further movements.”

Roberts bowed and turned to the door. Elf remembered a detail.

“And, Roberts . . .”

“Yes, milady?”

“You can ignore that item in the locked room until tomorrow.”

Did she imagine that he gave her an odd look? Nothing untoward showed in his voice as he said, “Very well, milady.”

With that, he left and Elf puffed out a long, long breath. What on earth had she done?

On the surface it was a reasonable plan to draw the Scots out.

Murray and his men would surely be keeping an eye on Fort. They had to be. When Fort reappeared with a scarlet lady on his arm, they’d recognize the woman from Vauxhall. They’d see a chance to silence her and keep close watch.

She hoped they didn’t stage an open attack, for that would ruin the other part of her plan—the one that would get her into Walgrave House, enabling her to steal the key and investigate the cellar.

The one that would make her Fort’s lover.

Of course, she’d have to insist that he let her keep the mask on, but he’d been hot enough for her to accept any terms.

She hoped.

She remembered his kiss, his touch, his splendid body, then covered her mouth with her hand, appalled with herself. She couldn’t suppress the excitement, though. Or the anticipation.

What a wicked woman she was, to be sure!

Composing her features, she walked briskly back to the drawing room, despite shivers of guilt. Surely the maid standing back to let her by, and the footman stationed in the hall must see how wanton she was. She felt as if her wicked plan was written on her back!

In the drawing room she picked up her embroidery, but immediately threw it down again to sit staring into space.

How could she? said her conventional part.

How could she not? asked the rebel who’d once been a hell-born twin.

Since the only man she wanted would never want her, she seemed likely to die a spinster. She’d be damned if she’d die a virgin. She couldn’t imagine, however, joining her body with just any man merely for the experience. What other chance would she have to lose her virginity to a man so special to her and keep her identity secret as well?

And, she thought with a sigh, it was more than sex. She wanted so much to be with Fort again in his kinder form, the form he had shown to Lisette, the form she’d glimpsed at Sappho’s. She wanted to see him in a state of joy.

Surely a man would have to be joyous in sex.

She wanted to see him naked again. She remembered him inviting her to do to his naked body all the wicked things she was imagining . . .

Elf waved her hand in front of her hot face.

Oh my. She now knew why people throughout history had made utter fools of themselves over members of the opposite sex.

Was she making a fool of herself?

Probably. And she didn’t care a jot.

The only snarl in her lovely plan was her disguise. If
he recognized her, that would be the end of it. Would powdered hair and mask be enough at even the most intimate moments?

Hurrying up to her room, she found the loo mask and tied it on, studying her face. Yes, it really was enough. With only her mouth and chin uncovered, no one would recognize her. If she spoke French, he wouldn’t know her voice.