The Passion of the Purple Plumeria (25 page)

“Out!” Gwen said, and punctuated the directive with a wadded-up cravat.

William left, grinning.

He wasn’t grinning an hour later when they all assembled in the front hall. The preparations for their departure were, if not military, at least martial. Six hefty footmen, with the look of former pugilists, had been conscripted to come with them.

“Just in case,” said Mr. Dorrington airily as they stood in the front of the house, waiting for the horses to be brought around. “Biscuit?”

No one had wanted to stay for breakfast. An air of urgency had infected them all; even Miss Wooliston was tapping her foot against the stair. Pistols bristled from belts, spare ammunition shoved into deep pockets.

This, William realized. This was Gwen’s real life. Not their interlude in their borrowed bedchamber, not last night’s confessions in the summerhouse, but this world of shadows and dangers, of footmen turned to guards and society ladies who carried pistols with their parasols.

William noticed that Gwen had her trusty parasol, the purple frills incongruous against her starkly tailored traveling dress. He had no doubt that the sword had been cleaned and sharpened.

“How long is it to Selwick Hall?” William asked.

“Four hours,” said Gwen. She looked at him and then quickly glanced away again. Four hours and then—what?

“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Dorrington, mercifully immune to undercurrents. “I know a shortcut. It will take at least an hour off our route.”

Lady Henrietta regarded her husband with deep trepidation. Like the other ladies, she was dressed for hard travel, in a well-cut riding habit and sturdy boots. “This isn’t going to be like that other shortcut, is it?”

Mr. Dorrington adopted an expression of wounded innocence. “That was a perfectly good shortcut.”

“Apart from taking three hours longer than the normal route,” pointed out his wife.

William listened to their cheerful bickering with only half an ear. His attention was on Gwen.

He was painfully aware that nothing was resolved between them. From the stiff set of her back, the furtive glances she sent him when she thought he wasn’t watching, he knew, without being quite sure why, that she intended to make good her word and go back to France. She wouldn’t look at him so otherwise, like a beggar staring at a bakery window, hunger and denial, all in one.

Stay,
he wanted to say.
Stay with me.

But for what? More nights like last night; there was that, at least. The memory of it brought a smile to his lips. Not merely for the obvious reasons, although those were there, sure enough. No, the sweetest memory was falling asleep with her arm across his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. He wanted to fall asleep with her at night and wake with her in the morning and bicker with her in between.

Not much of an argument, was it? There was no poet had ever won his lady with “Come bicker with me and be my love.”

“Do I have something on my nose?” she said, and he realized he had been staring, letting his horse do the work of following the path.

They had fallen a bit behind the others, more by accident than by design. Overhead, the sun glimmered through the leaves, creating a dappled pattern on the dusty surface of the road. It was the sort of day the poets had promised, April in England as April was meant to be, with the sun shining down on them and a breeze rustling the young leaves, a breeze that cooled pleasantly without chilling him through. A lark trilled its courting song, the high, clear notes floating on the breeze.

“Just a bit of dust,” William prevaricated.

Come away with me,
he wanted to say. Away from these ridiculous young creatures who treated her with mingled tolerance and amusement. Not unkindly, no, but it was there all the same. Surely he could do better than that for her. If love was enough to offer.

He leaned forward, near enough that his leg grazed hers. “Gwen?”

“Yes?” She left off scrubbing the nonexistent dirt from her nose and looked up at him. Her parasol rode by her hip, like the sword of a medieval knight.

The words he had meant to say died in his throat.

Her loyalty, her fierce sense of honor, those were the things he admired about her. How could he ask her to give that up? That might be love too, but it was a craven, selfish kind of love, the sort of love that destroyed the object of its affection.

“Nothing,” he said, and mustered a smile that was so palpably fake it made his teeth ache. “Nothing.”

Gwen eyed him narrowly, but she didn’t question him. “We’re not far from Selwick Hall,” she said. “Dorrington’s shortcut appears to have worked. Astonishing as that may be.”

“I heard that,” called back Mr. Dorrington. He looked like he was about to say more in that vein, but something caught his attention. Slowing his mount, he cocked his head, listening. “Was that a shot?”

One by one, they stopped and listened. From the distance, William could hear it, the faint crackle of pistol fire.

Lady Henrietta’s face had gone pale beneath her jaunty hat. “It’s coming from the Hall,” she said.

“Then we’d better get there, hadn’t we?” Gwen said tartly, and set her heels to the sides of her horse. The others followed suit, cantering down the road, spurred on by the sound of loud voices, the crackle of broken glass.

The road let out on a slight rise, just above the valley in which the house was set. William drew up his horse sharply, vaguely aware that around him, the others were doing the same.

“This,” said Miss Wooliston, “was just what I was afraid might happen.” She sounded more annoyed than alarmed.

Selwick Hall would have been a perfectly pleasant house, built of cream-colored stone, with a central block flanked by two smaller wings. There was a pair of tasteful columns on either side of the front door and classical pediments above the windows.

Only one thing marred the classical symmetry of the facade: the mob of roughly garbed men who appeared to be doing their best to fire holes into it. There were a good dozen of them, all of them making a great deal of noise and firing their pistols with a remarkable inaccuracy of aim.

William saw the movement of a curtain and a glint of metal as one of the defenders took a shot through a window, ducking back again against the wall. It was met by an answering burst of fire from the attackers. An arrow whizzed down from an upstairs window, narrowly missing skewering one of the attackers in the nose.

Selwick Hall was under siege.

The Knight had brought Amarantha to the very highest point of the very highest tower. The mirror lay between them, the sunlight dancing on its gleaming surface, hinting at the mysteries it contained, the mysteries that might crush the one and set the other free—but which?

The Knight of the Silver Tower raised his visor. “It is of no avail,” quoth he, and his face was terrible in its beauty. “We are two halves of the same whole. You can no more destroy me than I you.”

Plumeria leapt up the final stair. “Perhaps she may not,” said Plumeria, and brought she forth her sword, “but I have no such qualms.”

—From
The Convent of Orsino
by A Lady

A
n arrow whizzed past Gwen’s nose.

“Sorry!” shouted a girl from the window, who could only be William’s daughter. The features were a feminine mold of her father’s, impishness incarnate. “Wind!”

Next to her, a paler version of Jane appeared in the window, hauling what looked to be a bucket of steaming water.

“Gardy-loo!” Agnes called out, rather unnecessarily in Gwen’s opinion. She dumped the boiling liquid over the heads of the invaders, one of whom jumped back just in time, as his companion sputtered and ran in circles.

“Enjoy your bath!” yelled Lizzy, ducking as the maddened attacker, shaking water out of his eyes, stooped and lifted a handful of small stones, flinging them in her general direction. Gwen could hear the crack of glass breaking and an indignant squawk from William’s daughter, which sounded like something about not being the least bit sporting, and if that was the way they were going to behave . . .

William didn’t wait to hear more.

He rose in his stirrups, holding his pistol aloft like a sword. The sun lit his bright hair, hiding the lines on his face, the circles beneath his eyes. His horse lifted on its hind legs, man and mount moving in such concert that it dazzled Gwen’s eyes.

“After me!” he cried. His voice was like a bell, calling men to arms.

“Huzzah!” shouted Miles Dorrington, waving his hat in the air, and Gwen realized she was shouting too, her throat raw with it as they pounded down the slope, at the startled mob of motley attackers, who turned and gaped and then broke and ran, every man for himself. One had the nerve to take a potshot at Gwen, but William was between them, leveling and firing before Gwen had even seen the danger. The pistol spiraled out of the man’s hand.

“Nice shot!” shouted Gwen.

William grinned at her. “I was aiming for his horse.”

Before Gwen had time to point out that the man didn’t have a horse, William was cantering away again, riding down a fleeing crew of attackers while his daughter sent arrows flying over their heads, most of which landed in the brush far to the side but added to the general air of excitement and confusion.

The rout was quick and total. The attackers broke and scattered, running for the hills. They didn’t even bother to make an attempt to fight back.

Gwen thought that very poor form. It was also more than a little bit suspect. Their crew abandoned the fleeing attackers and pounded down towards the house, boisterous and triumphant, with Agnes and Lizzy cheering them on from the windows.

“The cavalry is here!” shouted Miles, waving his hat to the defenders in the windows.

Lord Richard’s head popped out of a window. “You’re about half an hour too early,” he said enigmatically, and disappeared again.

“Of all the ungrateful—,” began Lady Henrietta indignantly, but her husband silenced her by pulling her close and pressing a smacking kiss to her lips.

From inside, Gwen could hear the sound of bolts being drawn and miscellaneous pieces of furniture being hauled away.

The great door opened and the defenders poured out: Amy and Richard; their butler, Stiles, who still appeared to be operating under the delusion that he was the scourge of the high seas; and, just behind them, the two schoolgirls.

William was off his horse in a moment. His expression was rather what Gwen imagined one might see on a medieval visionary having his first divine visitation, dazed and joyful and lit from within.

He held out his arms. “Lizzy!”

There was no mistaking the family resemblance. The girl’s hair was a bronzed brown rather than carrot red, her eyes brown rather than blue, but the broad smile was the same. At the sight of her father, the girl’s face lit up.

“Father!” She dropped her bow and flung herself into her father’s arms. “I thought it was you!”

The exuberant Lizzy was subsumed in her father’s embrace, her springy hair crushed under his arm, her face buried in his shoulder.

Despite the imminent risk of paternal asphyxiation, Gwen could hear Lizzy’s muffled voice still going at a cracking pace, saying, “When did you get here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to England? Did they tell you—” as her father made vague and happy mumbling noises, stroking her bright hair and doing his best to get a word in edgewise.

It was quite the touching family reunion.

All around her, happy families reunited, hugging, exclaiming, talking over the events of the day as they all streamed back into the house in joyous, chattering groups. Lord Richard and Miles Dorrington bickered with the comfort of old friendship while their wives enthusiastically rehashed the battle. Colonel Reid and his daughter were lost in each other, although Agnes stayed close by her old school friend, hovering near, occasionally adding something to the conversation.

Gwen backed away, knowing herself to be superfluous. They would never even notice she was gone. Whatever William might have said, in the aftermath of a rather active night, this was his real life, and no matter how he protested, her place in it was done. She had brought him to his daughter. The quest was ended.

She ought to have been triumphant, but she wasn’t. Instead, she felt like a week of wet Wednesdays. Better for all concerned if she slipped away here and now, saving awkward good-byes and protestations that wouldn’t be meant. It was the coward’s way, she knew—she, who had always prided herself on staring danger in the face. But the muzzle of a pistol was one thing. To look in William’s eyes and see nothing but kindness—or, even worse, pity—was quite another matter entirely.

It was his pity she feared the most. She remembered, with an uncomfortable twist of the heart, the story he had told her last night, of Jack’s mother. He had taken her with him because he felt responsible, because she had nowhere else to go.

Well, then. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t anyplace else to go. She would go back to France with Jane, and that was all there was to it.

And if she didn’t feel quite as thrilled about it as she should, that was nobody’s business but hers.

Selwick Hall wasn’t so very far from the coast. With any luck, they could be on a boat in time for the next tide. Gwen twisted around, looking for Jane. Agnes was with the Reids and the Selwicks with the Dorringtons, but Jane was nowhere to be found.

A tingle of unease penetrated Gwen’s distracted mind as she threaded her way through the ground-floor rooms, looking for her missing charge. Something felt not quite right. And it wasn’t just Jane. The windows in the front had been clumsily barricaded, but the ones on the sides had been left unguarded, even unlatched. If the attackers hadn’t concentrated all their energies on the front . . .

And why had they? Selwick Hall wasn’t exactly fortified. There were French doors around the back and any manner of welcoming windows on the sides. There were trellises that might be climbed and balconies for the taking. If they had scattered, they could have gained entry to the house in any one of a dozen places, and there would have been nothing the hard-pressed defenders could do to stop them.

As it was, they had conducted their attack in the most idiotic manner imaginable, shooting into the woodwork, flinging stones at windows, and then breaking and running at the first sign of reinforcements, as if . . .

As if they hadn’t really been trying to gain entry in the first place.

At least, not that way. With everyone at the front of the house, fighting off the motley mob of attackers, the rear was left undefended. It wouldn’t be hard for one man, alone, to sneak in and take whatever it was he wanted.

Gwen’s steps quickened. Through the window of the music room, she could see a horse tied hard by the old tower, far from the rest of their mounts. There was a man, running lightly through the garden, vaulting the boxwood hedge. He shoved a small packet into the saddlebag, making haste to unloop the horse’s reins from the door of the old tower.

Lifting her skirts, Gwen started to run, making for the long salon that ran along the back of the house, with its door onto the gardens. But someone else had preceded her. The door hung ajar, wafting back and forth in the breeze as Jane hurried down the steps, the trailing skirt of her riding habit looped over one wrist.

Jane paused on the steps that led down to the gardens. “Leaving so soon, Chevalier?”

Her voice rang clear and true across the dry fountains and shrouded statues. From the folds of her skirt she withdrew a pistol, shiny with mother-of-pearl. It sparkled in the sunlight as she leveled it at the man who was hastily swinging onto the back of his mount.

“Or should I say . . . Monsieur le Jardinier?”

When the Chevalier lifted his hand, there was a pistol in it as well, a much larger, deadlier-looking pistol. “As we are in England, a simple ‘Gardener’ will suffice, Miss Wooliston.” He cocked a brow. “Or should I say . . . the Pink Carnation?”

Gwen skidded to a stop behind the French doors, hastily turning over possibilities. She could call for the others, but he was already on horseback; all he had to do was turn and run. By the time she had assembled the others and dragged their weary horses from their happy grazing, he would be long gone. She could try to get behind him, but the same problems applied; if he saw her, he would be off like a shot.

A shot . . .

“I pray you, dear lady.” The Chevalier smiled at Jane. With the sun lighting his face, he looked like the gallant from one of Fragonard’s
fêtes galantes
, charming and free of care. “Don’t insult my intelligence by telling me you have no idea what I mean.”

“I wasn’t going to,” said Jane, her wrist steady. “I was going to tell you to drop those jewels and step away from that horse.”

“Ah, but why should I? My pistol, darling flower among flowers, is bigger than yours.”

“Size isn’t everything,” said Jane coolly. “Would you back your aim against mine?”

“I should never make the mistake of underestimating so formidable a lady.” The Chevalier’s voice was disconcertingly warm, almost tender. As if realizing he had betrayed himself, he added mockingly, “You slay me with your eyes alone.”

“Yes,” said Jane, “but a bullet is far more effective.”

Gwen tended to agree. But how to get a clear shot? Jane was between her and the Chevalier, and none of the windows yielded the proper angle.

Cocking her pistol, Gwen edged closer to the door.

“It seems,” said the Chevalier, “we are at a standoff. I am sure I do not need to tell you how very much I wish the circumstances might have been otherwise—Jeanne.”

“It’s no use to presume intimacies that cannot be,” said Jane, sounding far more rueful than Gwen considered seemly. Hadn’t the man just admitted to being the Gardener? Jane raised her pistol. “I cannot let you leave. You know that.”

“I would happily dwell in your heart forever,” said the Chevalier, “but I fear I have a boat to catch. Unless—you care to come with me? Think what a partnership we might have. Bonaparte is generous to those in his service.”

This, thought Gwen indignantly, was how the devil swayed souls to his purpose.

“Not,” said Jane, “unless you change your politics.”

“In that case,” said the Chevalier resignedly, “I imagine you’ll just have to shoot me.” He tucked his own pistol into his belt and gathered up his reins. “Such a pity.”

“Give yourself in,” said Jane desperately. “I can arrange terms for you.” Their eyes locked across the field. “Don’t make me do this.”

“You won’t,” said the Chevalier softly. “You can’t shoot me any more than I can shoot you.”

That, decided Gwen, was quite enough of that.

Kicking the door open, Gwen burst out onto the balcony.

“She might not,” said Gwen, brandishing her pistol with a flourish. “But I have no such qualms.”

As the others stood frozen in shock, Gwen leveled her pistol and fired.

William breathed in the scent of his daughter’s hair, marveling at the fact that she was safe and well, even if she couldn’t aim an arrow to save her life.

Hard on the heels of relief followed a blaze of paternal indignation. “What the devil were you doing, running away from school like that?” he demanded. “You had us half scared out of our wits!”

“I didn’t know you were coming back,” said his daughter cheerfully. “And we really didn’t think it would take us this long to get here. Agnes said it was four days—”

“It usually is,” said the much-put-upon Agnes defensively. “By coach.”

“Yes, but we weren’t going by coach,” said Lizzy. “We dressed ourselves up as boys—rather convincing ones, really—and took to the side roads.”

The great relish with which she related their exploits gave William reason to believe that the experience had not, in fact, been an overly onerous one for her. In fact, she seemed dangerously close to enjoying it.

William gave his offspring a narrow-eyed look. “But why did you run? Do you know the state you had us all in?”

Lizzy wafted that away. “Don’t worry,” she said, giving him her best look of wide-eyed innocence. “It was all quite necessary. Once Jack sent me that letter—”

William held his daughter out to arm’s length. “And what letter might that be?”

“Jack said he’d made some changes in his employment and it might get a bit sticky for me at the school,” said Lizzy blithely.

“Sticky?” William repeated. He made a mental note to give his second son the dressing-down of his life. If he could find him. Somehow, he doubted he’d have much success with trying to send him to his room. That hadn’t worked with the scamp even before he’d become a master of espionage.