Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (4 page)

She’d made a fool of him, and she didn’t think him the sort to overlook that. Nor did she think him a fool. She suspected that he, too, was standing still listening, waiting like a good hunter for some sound of disturbance to mark her place.

She began to ease away from where she had heard him last, trying to make as little sound as possible, and alert for more clandestine lovers. In some places she could pass between shrubs or slip between tree trunks, but in others dense growth forced detours. Soon she was hopelessly disoriented.

She paused in the total darkness of a dense clump of yew to consider her situation. The fireworks had stopped, and no sound guided her.

Amanda would be safe, she thought, as long as she didn’t plunge back into these paths in search of Elf. And practically speaking, Elf could do nothing for her friend other than return to the South Walk as soon as possible.

To do that safely, she feared she’d have to avoid the paths. That meant pushing through the bushes in the hope of hearing the orchestra and getting her bearings. It worried her that she could not hear it now, for that meant she must be far from the heart of the Gardens.

Try as she might, she could not even hear any writhing lovers. She felt as if she were alone in the midst of the country.

The dark, silent, ominous country . . .

She realized then that she no longer had any reason to stay away from the paths. As long as she was alert, she could return to them, merely being prepared to plunge back into the bushes if she spotted the captain.

Oh, her poor cloak. What a sight she would be when she finally emerged into the light!

Then she had an idea. Trying not to make much noise, she unfastened the voluminous garment and eased it off. Then she reversed it, putting it on again with the dark, cloth lining outside. Not only would it resist damage, it would be less visible than shining red. And when she
finally emerged, she could flip it around again and appear relatively untattered.

That done, she had to make herself move onward. But as she began to work her way out of the yew, footsteps scrunched on the nearby path.

“This should do.” A man’s voice, speaking low and soft.

Lud, was she going to have to listen to a sordid seduction scene?

“It’s quiet enough.” Another muted male voice. “Now, what did you want?”

Despite her ladylike life, Elf knew the ways of the world and for a moment she feared she was to be audience to a sodomistic encounter. But the next words dispelled that.

“Your commitment to the cause has been called into question, my lord. There is considerable uneasiness.”

“By whom?”

Elf felt the faintest twinge of recognition of that well-bred voice, with its slight drawl. But it could be anyone. She knew nearly every lord in England.

“By those with more to lose than you.”

“I doubt any of you have more to lose than I.”

“Aye, and that is maybe the cause for concern.” The speaker’s voice began to show a Scottish lilt, and turned markedly less respectful. “What will be your gain when we succeed, my lord?”

“That right should prevail.” said the “lord,” audibly dismissive of all concern. “The restoration of the Stuarts to their rightful throne.”

At those words, Elf felt as if someone had poured icy water down her back.

Treason.

They were talking
treason
!

But surely the Jacobite cause had been crushed seventeen years ago by the Forty-five. The heads of the last lords to support that cause still rotted on Temple Bar.

Elf had stood statue-still from the first, but now she tried to even cut her breathing to the minimum.
Amorous captains were a minor hazard compared to plotting traitors. If these men found her here, they’d slit her throat.

Inch by inch, and wincing at every faint rustle from her garments, she eased her bodice dagger out of her stomacher. Though only a tiny thing, with a blade no longer than her hand, it was still a weapon and better than none.

“I doubt you are driven by ideals, my lord,” said the Scot. “Perhaps you think to gain a position of power under the new regime. But you must know there are many others with a claim to it, a claim going back generations.”

“My family has a claim, too.”

Could he be a Scottish lord? There were a few English who had ever supported the Stuarts, and some Scots lords lacked an accent.

The lord spoke again, with audible disdain. “If you don’t want my help, say so. I’ll not force it on you. But how you’re to get close to the king without me I cannot imagine.”

“You know too much to be allowed to walk away, my lord.”

A new menace wove into the air and Elf’s heart pounded. Murder? Could she really stand here and do nothing about a murder, even of a traitor?

The lord arrogantly dismissed danger, however. “Don’t threaten me, Murray. I’ve left detailed descriptions of the plan in case of my untimely death. And I’m well able to take care of myself.” Elf heard the lethal hiss of a sword being drawn.

The long silence might have convinced Elf she was alone except that they couldn’t have left without making some noise.

“Put up, my lord,” said the Scotsman at last, an edge of nervousness in his voice. “There is no need of swords. It is just that as the time comes nigh we’re all on edge. After all, you could be a government man. An agent provocateur.”

The lord laughed. “Absurd. You’re a more likely one. Surely a man would only take such a role for money, and the one thing I do not lack is money. Are we finished here?”

The lord had obviously regained control of the situation, for the Scottish voice positively groveled as it said, “Aye, my lord.”

“Then do not request any more such meetings. We only have a short time to wait, and incidents such as this are both dangerous and inconvenient.”

“Aye, you are doubtless in the right of it, my lord.”

Then, at last, footsteps on gravel told Elf they were leaving.

She sucked in a deep breath, beginning to tremble in reaction. Dear heaven, what should she do? Someone was planning to do something terrible to the king, doubtless intending to follow it by armed invasion!

She had to prevent it.

As her heart steadied, Elf realized a true adventurer would have found a way to peep out and identify that English lord. She, like a terrified rabbit, had stayed frozen in place. Now, while the impression danced fresh in her mind, she tried to fix a name or face to the voice. Though she was haunted by familiarity, nothing settled.

He had been speaking very low, but something in the tone had been familiar. A young man. She could almost see a proud stance, a haughty look . . .

No, it would not come.

Perhaps it would spring to mind when she stopped chasing it, or when next she met him. For the moment, she must escape from this situation, find Amanda, and get safely home.

She would go direct to Malloren House to tell Rothgar—

Then she realized he wasn’t there. None of her brothers was close by. Her freedom from protectors had now become a significant problem.

Calculating how long it might take to get a message to any of them, she cautiously pushed out of the hedge
onto the nearby path. As she stepped free of the shrubs, however, she saw a man in the nearby shadows, deep in thought. He was stocky, plainly dressed, with palish hair beneath a tricorn.

She froze, then started to ease back into concealment. But it was too late. He looked up and saw her.

She’d never seen this man before, but since he wore only a small mask, she’d recognize him again.

And he knew it.

Livid alarm replaced surprise. He leaped at her, seizing her arm. Remembering the dagger, Elf stabbed his wrist to the bone. Even as he howled, she fled for her life, praying she ran in the right direction.

The man had choked most of his cry of pain and now the only sound came from his feet pounding behind like a menacing drum.

Or perhaps her struggling blood was the drum in her ears . . .

Breathlessly lost in the twisting paths, Elf thought of taking to the bushes again. But her pursuer gasped close behind. What she needed was people.

Any people.

She’d throw herself on top of a copulating couple to get their protection!

She’d be ecstatic to see her captain.

Pausing at the junction of three paths, stealing a moment to suck in a deep breath, she searched for sound. She heard the orchestra dimly over her pounding heart, but there was no evidence of people nearby.

A frantic glance showed the man almost on her so she desperately took to her heels again, heading toward the music.

Turning a bend, she saw light!

Ahead, the crowded South Walk glimmered like paradise, but her pursuer grunted inches from her back.

A hand snagged her cloak.

She ripped it free and raced on, heart pounding fit to burst, dagger clutched tight in her hand.

If she stopped she was dead.

Nearer than the light, a person turned to face them, a dark silhouette against distant lanterns.

A tall man in dark clothes.

She didn’t care who it was. “Help me!” she cried and flung herself against his chest.

Instinctively, his arms came around her as he rocked with the impact.

At the last moment, with heart-stopping relief, she recognized him, despite a narrow black mask. “Thank God!” she gasped.

She’d thrown herself into the arms of her brother-in-law, the Earl of Walgrave.

She was safe.

She was safe . . .

Collapsed against his strong chest, she wheezed for breath.

“She heard everything,” panted the Scottish voice behind her. “She must die.”

Elf froze with horror, at last recognizing the hauntingly familiar voice.

She’d thrown herself into the arms of her brother-in-law, Lord Walgrave, but he had turned traitor.

It made no sense.

No sense at all.

What need did one of the most powerful and wealthy men in the kingdom have of Stuarts and rebels? But then she remembered his father had leaned toward the Jacobites during the invasion of 1745. That folly had given Rothgar a hold over the old earl, which in the end had driven the man mad.

Her breath-starved brain struggled for a new strategy. She doubted Walgrave would recognize her. Would he stand by and see an unknown woman murdered?

Would identifying herself help?

He hated Mallorens.

She gripped her dagger, even though she had no faith in its effect against two strong men.

At last Walgrave spoke. “Die?” he said lightly, his arms settling more firmly about her. “Zounds, man, this pretty bird doesn’t have the wit to understand anything more serious than the trimming of her caps. Unless,” he added with meaning, “you insist on forcing her mind toward the subject.”

“You know her, my lord?”

Elf ventured a peep and saw that the Scot had not put away the long, menacing dagger in his hand.

Walgrave sighed as if bearing burdens. “She’s my
current mistress, and tiresomely jealous.” Elf found her chin forced up by a none-too-gentle hand. “I shall have to punish you for this, puss. I really can’t have you following me around and interfering in my affairs.”

A tremor passed through her, for genuine fury glinted in his eyes. Apparently it wasn’t murderous fury, however, and so she must follow his lead.

“Je suis désolée, monseigneur,”
she sniffed, not having to force the nervousness into her voice. She continued in French, “I was so sure you’d come here with
her
.”

With easy fluency, he replied in the same language. “Even if I choose to consort with other women, you have no right to spy or object, do you?” He enforced the words with a truly painful squeeze so she squeaked.

“No, my lord!”

“You see,” he said to the other man in English, “she presents no problem.”

The Scotsman’s knife glinted. “With all due respect, my lord, she could do harm even by mindless chatter.”

“Her English is not good enough, but I intend to keep her close. Don’t concern yourself. She won’t speak to anyone about anything until it’s too late to matter.”

With that, ignoring the threatening blade, the earl steered Elf firmly toward the lighted South Walk.

Though Elf’s heartbeat was steadying, her legs still trembled. It was no hardship to cling to Walgrave and whisper,
“Merci, monseigneur!”

“Don’t thank me too soon.” Once more, he spoke in French. His command of the language lacked her perfect accent, but it was excellent. “My Scottish friend is doubtless following, and I meant what I said. You are my prisoner.”

“Prisoner? You can’t do that!”

“What is to stop me? Whoever you are, you little minx, you have escaped your attendants and engaged in a feather-witted adventure. Which means I can easily make you disappear. Put away that toy,” he added, glancing at her dagger. “It will do you no good.”

Elf slipped it back into her stomacher but muttered, “It saved me from that man.”

Her nerves were beginning to steady. Relatively speaking.

They still quivered like twanged harp strings, but strength had returned to her limbs and she could think.

Walgrave hadn’t recognized her.

That was hardly surprising when she was masked. The main danger lay in her voice, for they’d met often enough. If they only spoke French, however, perhaps that would be enough disguise.

As they blended once more with the festive crowd, she prayed for it. His feelings toward the Mallorens were so fierce that if he discovered her identity, he might toss her back to the murderous Scot. Moreover, when she escaped him, he must never know whom he had saved, especially if he was involved in treason.

Treason!

Lud, but it made no sense. She’d thought him a rake, an unfeeling brother, and a malicious enemy. She’d never thought him deranged.

She’d puzzle that through later. First, she must continue to fool him until she could escape. She hoped he was still enough of a rake to be intrigued by a flighty Frenchwoman.

“Please let me go home, my lord. Don’t be cruel!”

“Cruel? Faith, child, I’m being a very gentle, perfect knight. It goes against my nature, so don’t question the blessing.”

“Oh, I don’t, my lord! Thank you, my lord! I think you’re being wonderful!” The sillier she sounded, the less wary he’d be. She reminded herself of Amanda, and looked around the crowd. This enterprise had been Elf’s idea, and she had to be sure her friend returned home safely. Try as she might, however, Elf could catch no glimpse of a silver-blue domino.

Walgrave was making a way toward the exit like Moses parting the Red Sea. Though incognito and
dressed in plain dark clothes, something in his manner seemed to make the lesser mortals slink out of his way.

Where was Amanda?

She had to be sure her friend was safe. She also needed to ensure that Amanda didn’t raise the hue and cry. By dawn, Elf hoped to be safely home with no one aware of her folly, but if Amanda raced home to cry the alarm, they’d be deep in the suds.

Elf began to despair, but as they came close to the river, even Walgrave had to slow his imperious progress. Elf could search more carefully, and she finally spotted a lady in a blue domino standing on a bench beneath a tree, desperately scanning the crowd. Amanda had even taken off her mask and looked frantic.

Elf focused on her, as if she could snag Amanda’s attention out of the air. Twice her friend’s eyes traveled by. Then Elf realized Amanda would be looking for bright red, and she was still wearing her inside-out cloak. Quickly, she pushed back the hood, exposing red silk.

Amanda’s eyes traveled over her, twitched back, and fixed.

With a bright smile of relief, Amanda waved and jumped down off the bench. Elf hissed in annoyance. Amanda could be dashing into danger, particularly as Walgrave might well recognize her.

For a moment she wondered if she could use that to free herself. Surely he wouldn’t try to imprison both of them. But then she remembered the murderous Scot. She couldn’t let Amanda, clearly identified, fall into the circle of danger!

With his gaze on the crowds before them, Walgrave steered Elf onward, but she kept her eyes fixed in the direction Amanda would have to come from. As soon as her friend pushed through the crowd, she raised a hand in a command to stop. Amanda paused, a questioning look on her face. Elf made a shooing gesture, hoping Amanda would understand it as “go home.”

Again, at the very mouth of Vauxhall Lane, Walgrave
was halted. He muttered a curse, his attention focused on the people blocking the tunnel ahead of them.

Elf turned her head and mouthed,
Go home. I’m safe.

Amanda frowned, squinting at Elf’s escort. Then her lips parted in surprise. After a moment her eyes widened in horrified amusement.

That expression stayed with Elf as Walgrave found a way through the crowd and swept her into Vauxhall Lane. For heaven’s sake! Amanda thought she was heading off willingly for a night of passion with the earl of her dreams.

As they emerged and headed for Vauxhall Stairs, Elf saw one good side to the ridiculous situation. Amanda wouldn’t approve, but she wouldn’t sound the alarm and risk ruining Elf’s reputation forever.

And Amanda should be safe. It was merely a matter of hiring a boat to take her to the steps close to Warwick Street. A footman had been instructed to wait there all evening, ready to escort the ladies back home. Of course, there would only be one lady, but surely Amanda could come up with some explanation for that.

For now, Elf had to concentrate on her own safety, and this bizarre matter of treason.

She needed her brothers, but it could take days for one of them to arrive. She had no idea when the plot was supposed to take place. Walgrave had implied that she’d only be a prisoner for a matter of days. The Scot had said the time was nigh.

She clearly couldn’t just wait for her brothers. She would have to do something herself. Underneath worry and fear, she admitted to a tingle of pure excitement.

She was about to be challenged at last, and her Malloren soul delighted. She finally understood why her twin had felt compelled to seek a difficult and dangerous way of life.

Probably for this tingle in the blood.

So, what should she do?

Allowing Walgrave to guide her down toward the
boats, she skimmed over options. She would send for her brothers, but in the meantime, she must act.

Elf drew up a mental list of things to be done, just as if she were preparing for a grand entertainment.

First, escape from Walgrave without letting him know whom he had in his power.

Second, find out as much as possible about the plot.

She wondered if she should reverse those. If she stayed with Walgrave, perhaps she could find out more about the plot. But no. She suspected the earl had plans for their time together that didn’t include discussion of his political leanings.

Third? Balk the traitors and see them brought to justice, she supposed. Without Walgrave ending up on the block.

She remembered only yesterday promising Chastity that she’d prevent such a disaster, and hysterical laughter threatened.

The penalty for treason was to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, though the Jacobite peers had been beheaded. She glanced up at the man beside her—clear-cut, arrogant features, brown wavy hair disciplined by a black bow. Was that handsome young head to be severed by an ax and left to rot on a spike in a public thoroughfare?

She could not bear the thought.

Nor would he be the only one to suffer. A traitor automatically fell under attainder, which meant that his title was annulled and his heirs deprived of all his property.

Chastity would fall under the cloud of shame, as would Cyn. A traitorous brother-in-law would play hell with his military career!

The dangers and widespread implications of the situation leached Elf’s belief in her ability to cope. She hadn’t any idea what to do. She truly wished Rothgar were close by. She would weakly toss all this into his capable hands and go back to planning grand entertainments.

But she was the only one here to do what must be
done, and so she must do it. The first thing was to escape.

She felt the earl’s arm relax. Taking the chance, she ripped out of his hold. He reacted instantly, however, crushing her to him so ruthlessly she feared for her ribs.

“Give me trouble,” he said flatly, “and I’ll hurt you worse than this.”

Shivering, Elf knew he told the truth. Though willing to rescue a foolish young girl, he’d control her with pain if he had to.

She wished she knew him better and could anticipate his moves. Before Cyn’s involvement with Chastity, however, the Wares and Mallorens had rarely met. Lord Thornhill—as Walgrave had been then—had certainly not haunted the same spots as a lady. In fact, report held him to be little more than a rakish idler.

He had not—as the saying goes—improved upon acquaintance. Elf thought him quick-tempered, arrogant, and uncaring about people in his path. Coming from a close-knit family, she had been shocked that he’d given so little thought to his sisters’ welfare. Rothgar had forced him to admit that they were victims of their father’s ruthless ambitions, but Walgrave had not been particularly grateful.

After his father’s death, he did appear to have reformed his morals, but he’d grown colder and revealed a dark, simmering malice toward all things Malloren.

Heaven knows why.

He couldn’t, surely, claim to have loved his power-lusting father, and even if he did, why blame Rothgar for the fourth earl’s death? Even if Rothgar had pulled the trigger, he’d been forced to it.

Whatever the truth, Walgrave seemed to be trying to fill his father’s shoes in all ways, including enmity to the Mallorens.

It was, as she had said to Amanda, quite lunatic to feel a physical response to the man. Yet even now, literally a prisoner in his unkind arms, she could feel that erotic
energy, feel it along her nerve endings and deep inside, where a wanton part of her stirred hopefully.

Oh, foolish creature,
she told herself.
Stop it!

As Elf was pushed toward the Stairs, she glanced back, wondering if Amanda would be following. What she saw, however, was three ominous figures close behind. All wore dark cloaks, tricorns, and masks. Despite the masks, they looked not one bit like merrymakers.

They looked like assassins.

“Yes,” Walgrave said, still speaking French. “You really are safer with me. They will slit your pretty throat without a care.”

And these were his conspirators? How could he be so foolish?

“Don’t be afraid, though,” he added without warmth. “If you do as you’re told, no harm will come to you.”

Boats were still depositing merrymakers, but by now there were plenty waiting to take revelers home. Elf began to ponder ways to use the boatmen in order to escape. At Walgrave’s approach, however, a powdered footman separated from a group of waiting servants and blew on a silver whistle. Immediately, a personal barge glided toward them under the power of six sturdy oarsmen.

Elf watched with dismay. These were the earl’s own men in his livery. She should have expected it. Rothgar generally traveled the river in this style.

The center of the boat contained an enclosed area curtained in green velvet adorned with Walgrave’s crest and lit by hanging lamps. He pushed her into it, then took his place beside her, drawing the curtains as the boat shot off into the center of the wide river.

The area could seat about eight, so two didn’t crowd it, especially since Elf sat on one side while the earl lounged on the other. She still felt trapped now she was alone with him. She had no illusions about being able to fight him off. He was twice her size and she knew he enjoyed all the usual manly sports, including the new one of pugilism.