“If it’s so private, why’re you comin’ to me with it? Why don’t you go to your husband? Won’t he take care of a private issue for you?”
“Yes, of course he would, but that’s not the point. My husband is busy at the moment with his own concerns, and I don’t want to burden him with mine.”
The man’s arm moved, as if he was scratching his head. “Seems to me a bloke would want to make that his concern. Don’t you trust your husband?”
“Of course I trust him. I trust him with my life!” Plum made an annoyed sound. “We were not discussing my husband, we were discussing the situation—”
“Know what I think? A wife shouldn’t have secrets from her husband, that’s what I think. Shows a lack of faith in him, it does. Shows she thinks he can’t take care of her.”
“Perhaps in other wives it does, but in my case, it doesn’t. I have the utmost faith and confidence in my husband, but this is something that could harm him and his children, something to do with my past, and I will not have their lives ruined because of me.”
“What’s the gentry cove done to you? Said a few nasty things about you, no doubt?”
Plum shivered. There was something eerie about talking to a faceless man standing in the shadows of the great trees lining the walk. “It’s much, much worse than that. It would bring shame and dishonor to everyone in my family.”
“Maybe you just think it would. Maybe it’s nothing so very terrible at all.”
Plum made a dismissive movement with her hand. “You don’t know anything about it, and frankly, I have no desire to discuss it further. If you do not wish to do the job—”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t, I just said it seems to me you should have talked to your husband about it. That’s what a husband is for, isn’t it? To help you out when you need it?”
“Perhaps your wife sees you merely as a solution to her problems, but I most certainly do not view my husband in that light. Oh, I admit I did at first, he seemed like such a godsend when I most needed him, but then I realized just how wonderful he is, and I became determined to do everything I could to protect him.”
“That’s a man’s job,” the murderer grumbled.
“Is it? Your wife must not love you very much if she doesn’t wish to protect you. That, however, is neither here nor there, nor is my relationship with my husband. The fact is that I need Charles de Spenser quieted, and I cannot do it myself. I do not wish to be known to be involved, and as I am with child, and—”
“You bloody well aren’t! I made sure you aren’t!”
Plum clutched the pistol tighter as the man stepped out of the shadows. There was something familiar about that bellow. “Harry?”
Her husband stormed out of the shadows toward her, a furious look on his face. It was Harry. Here! But why? And how? “Harry, what are you doing here? You haven’t taken up murdering as a pastime, and you were afraid to tell me?”
“No, you foolish woman,” he snarled, grabbing her by her arms and giving her a little shake. “What do you mean you’re with child? You can’t be, I pulled out almost every single time.”
“Yes, almost every time,” she said, trying to get over the shock of seeing Harry where she expected a hardened criminal. “But there were two times you didn’t, and…oh! That doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is that you’ve tricked me!”
Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously behind his spectacles. “Tricked you? How have I tricked you? You’ve tricked me! You deliberately impregnated yourself when I wasn’t looking!”
Plum poked him in the chest. Hard. “That would be a very neat trick indeed! You were not only looking, you were moaning. And thrusting. And…and…sweating! And doing all those other moaning-thrusting-sweating-type things you do when you spill your seed, so don’t you dare tell me you weren’t aware of what was going on…argh! You did it again! You distracted me! Well, I won’t allow it. You, my Lord Rosse, tricked me into thinking you were a murderer, which is a very cruel thing to do to a wife, very cruel indeed. I shan’t forget this evening for a long, long time.”
“Neither will I,” Harry roared at her.
“Good!” Plum yelled back. “Just what is your connection with Thom’s burglar Nick?”
Harry swore and released her arms, stomping off a few steps, running his hand through his hair as he spun around to face her. “He’s Noble’s son, and my godson, if you insist on knowing. He’s not a burglar, he’s a social reformer. As for your pregnancy, I will not lose you, do you understand? I will not lose you! I lost one wife to childbirth, but I refuse to lose another. No. I won’t have it, I absolutely will not have it! You’ll swear to me right here and now that you won’t die!”
Plum, who had been teetering between anger that her husband had tricked her and tears due to his reaction to her wonderful news, swung firmly into the puddly camp, her anger evaporating as she realized what was driving his fury. He was concerned about her health. He wasn’t angry because she was such a poor mother, he was worried that she would die. She gave a tiny little sniff and swallowed back a large lump of tears, her voice soft and warm with understanding. “Harry, not every woman dies in childbirth. Your first wife bore five children without problem. Gertie told me she died of a fever. She didn’t think it had anything to do with McTavish’s birth at all.”
“She was weakened by the birth, that’s why she caught the fever.” Harry placed his hand on her forehead. “There, you see? It’s already begun. You feel warm. Too warm. You’re obviously gravely ill.”
She laughed and pulled the hand down so she could press her lips against it. “I’m not gravely ill, I’m warm because it’s a warm evening, and I was flushed with anger, but truly, I feel fine. Well, no, that’s not strictly the truth, I’m sick every morning, and my breasts are sore, and I seem to be discomforted in a most unmentionable place, and no matter how much roughage I eat…well, that’s not important. Other than those unmentionable things, I feel wonderful. I want you to be happy about this baby. I had a midwife look at me, you know. She said I wasn’t too old to bear a child, and that everything was as it should be, so really, there is nothing to worry about.”
Harry allowed her soft words and warm touch to ease his anger. He really had no choice; the situation was one that he was powerless against. There was another, however. He hugged her closely for a moment, sending a silent prayer that she not be taken from him. Just as she lifted her lips to his, he pushed her gently away. “What the devil do you mean by coming out here alone meeting with a murderer? You could have been killed or worse!”
“I can’t imagine what you think is worse than being killed,” Plum said with a distinctly annoyed look on her face. “But I assure you that I did take steps to guarantee my protection.”
“Oh, really? And just what might those steps be?” No doubt she had left a melodramatic letter on his pillow, as ladies in gothic novels always did.
She pointed a very real, very un-melodramatic pistol at him. “It might not kill someone outright, but I imagine it would give anyone intent on harming me pause for thought. Now, would you mind telling me please why you are here in place of the murderer I arranged to meet me?”
Harry fought the urge to shake his wife, yell at her, kiss her, make violent love to her, yell at her some more…he took a deep breath, and with great control, took the pistol out of her hand, noting as he did so that it was not only loaded, but primed. He closed his mind to the horrors of what might have happened to her carrying a pistol that could go off at any moment, and with a firm but gentle hand, spun her around and marched her back toward the road. “The question at hand is not why I am here, it’s why you would attempt to hire a man to kill someone who drowned six months ago. It is Charles de Spenser you wanted killed, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but as I told you, I didn’t really want him killed. Thom misunderstood me. Why was Nick pretending to be a burglar when he
wasn’t?”
“He’s heavily into reform work that requires him to blend into low-class surroundings. When Thom saw him the other night, he was returning from a raid he instigated on a working man’s brothel. He slipped into the Willots’ house with the intention of changing into his dress blacks there. Now you answer my question.”
“You haven’t asked one.” Plum stopped and turned toward him, her face pale, her dark eyes huge and filled with dread. “Oh, Harry, Charles isn’t dead. It’s all so horrible—he said he was insensible after a boating accident and everyone thought he was dead, but he isn’t. He’s back, and I didn’t want to add to your burdens, truly I didn’t. I see now why you were asking me those questions when I thought you were the murderer, and even though it will take a long time for me to forgive you tricking me like that, it is the truth that I never once doubted you could take care of Charles if I asked you to, only your way of taking care of him would be challenging him to a duel, and you just can’t do that. Not only might you be harmed, but it wouldn’t stop Charles from telling what he knew, and then we’d all be ruined.”
Harry, who was indeed planning that very action, put a temporary halt to his thoughts of firing a bullet through the man who was torturing Plum just long enough to admit she had a point. “Regardless of the steps I will take to revenge the dishonor he did you, I have sworn to you time and again that nothing about your marriage to de Spenser can hurt us—”
“This isn’t about that,” Plum wailed, turning and walking toward the carriage.
“It isn’t?” Harry stared after her for a moment, then caught her arm, turning her so her face was illuminated by the gas lamp on the street. “Then why the devil do you want the man killed? Did he offend you by some other means? Is he the man who met you in the park, the one Juan said you slapped?”
“Yes, he approached me in the park, and yes, he offends me, but not how you think. I…I’m not sure how to put it…it’s…it’s difficult to explain.”
“Try,” Harry said, pushing his spectacles up so he could better see every fleeting expression on her face.
She explained. In great detail. So great a detail, in fact, that Harry wondered once or twice if he was going to be able to stop her long enough to get her home. It seemed that once she started, she was determined that he know everything, right down to the scenarios she had planned, scenarios that were not only frightening in their inventiveness, but so ludicrous, Harry had an uneasy feeling that they would succeed brilliantly. Forty minutes later Harry lifted his wife into the carriage. “Take us home, Crouch.”
“Aye, my lord. Everythin’ turn out all right, then?”
“Yes,” Harry said as he climbed in after his wife. “Thank Nick for me. And Noble. And my thanks to you for seeing to my lady’s safety.”
“Enjoyed it,” Noble’s pirate butler said with a grin. “Life has been a bit on the dull side of late what with Lady Weston tied up with the young ’uns ’aving the chicken pox.”
It was a relatively short ride home distance-wise, but Harry used every minute to mull over the tale his wife had told him. That she could be the author of the most notoriously sexual book ever published was no surprise to him—he had ample proof of her skill and knowledge of the connubial calisthenics, a skill and knowledge that left him wrung out like a limp rag each night—but that she should believe the only way out of the true identity of Vyvyan La Blue being made public was by blackmailing her former lover was a bit of a shock. His Plum, his gentle, loving Plum who made his life whole, his heart sing, and his body harden with just the thought of her, that Plum was the same woman who cold-bloodedly planned another man’s social ruin just to keep his reputation clean.
Harry thought he couldn’t love Plum any more than he already did, but he was wrong. He loved her more, bless her vengeful little heart.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to blister her ears with a lecture about not sharing her burdens, but still, he couldn’t keep from tasting her just once before they arrived home.
“You’re not still angry with me, are you?” she asked once he released her lips. The scent of her was dizzying, seeping into his skin, going deep into his body and soul, making him burn to claim her. “You couldn’t kiss me like that if you were angry.”
“Of course I am, you wonderful, adorably silly woman. I’m going to be angry for a very long time. You’re going to have to use every morsel of talent you possess to woo me back into a good mood, and I assure you I am going to take a lot of wooing.”
“Are you?” Plum asked, a wicked light dawning in her eyes. Harry felt himself responding to that light. He loved it when she got wicked. “Well, then, I shall have to put my mind to some inventive ways to woo you.”
“You do that.” He leaned forward to possess himself of her lips again. “It might just save you.”
“Might save me from what?” Plum asked five minutes later, breathless, her eyes misty with passion and love.
“My retribution,” he breathed and hauled her onto his lap in order to kiss her properly.
Sixteen
The Honorable Charles de Spenser was not having a very good day. First there was a nasty note from his bank that informed him that his credit was of the quality that sadly did not allow the bank to extend its services to him further, followed quickly by a visit to his family solicitor, who pointed out that under the terms of his late father’s will, his quarterly allowance was to be paid only if he remained outside of England. When he returned to the rented rooms he had engaged for himself and his wife, it was to find her surrounded by boxes bearing the names of some of the finest modistes and shops. He didn’t mind in the least that she had bought items for which he had neither the means nor the intention of paying; what rankled was the fact that the bank would spread the news of his insolvency, thus he wouldn’t be able to visit any of the gentlemen’s outfitters and purchase himself a new wardrobe. It just wasn’t fair.
And now Plum of all creatures, soft, stupid Plum, had the nerve to ignore his demands. Well, he would see about that. He had a plan to bring her to heel, and if that plan called for him to use her body as well as her husband’s money, that was her own fault. She had had it easy for too long while he suffered as an outcast; now he would have his revenge.
But first he had to get into her house to leave her proof of his intentions. Charles stood in a small garden, pursing his lips as he best considered how to get into the house unseen. The place was locked up tighter than a virgin’s thighs, but at long last, he selected a small window in the back of the house to break with a convenient brick.
“Damned nuisance,” he muttered to himself as he climbed into the window, cutting his hand on a shard of broken glass. “She’ll owe me for this, too.”
He sucked at the wound for a moment, then felt in his breast pocket for the letter he would leave on her pillow, a letter containing specific instructions on how the money was to be paid to him, as well as a reminder that a copy of his statement regarding the true identity of Vyvyan La Blue would be sent to the Times should she not pay him what he was due. He sucked at the cut once more, wrapping his hand in his handkerchief as he crept through the dark room toward the door.
The house was quiet, no footmen in attendance in the hall. Charles climbed the first set of stairs quickly, nervously glancing around to make sure no servants were about. He looked into one or two rooms, but they were day rooms and not the bedchambers he sought. He paused at the foot of the stairs, holding his breath as he listened. There was the faintest sound of voices, but they were young and high voices. No doubt it was Rosse’s children.
A nasty smile spread across his face. He had a taste for young girls and had heard that Rosse had a daughter who was about the age he enjoyed. Perhaps he could force Plum into turning her over to him, as well.
His mind was so full of lewd thoughts, he failed to notice the trip wire set at the top of the stairs, nor the bucket car
efully suspended from the ceiling. He did notice, however, when a bucket full of stinking, slimy, muddy water poured down onto his head, as if the skies had opened and rained down on him.
He swore profanely, wiping the muck from his eyes, unaware that the noise of children playing before bedtime had ceased for a pregnant moment before being replaced by various whoops of delight, followed by the thunder of several bare feet upon a wooden floor.
All Charles de Spenser knew was that suddenly two children in nightgowns appeared as if by magic, both of them staring at him as he pulled out a sodden handkerchief to wipe his face.
“Who’re you?” a tall boy asked.
Charles was tempted to snarl an answer, but quickly changed his snarl into a hoarse chuckle. He knew well enough that one caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. “Well there, aren’t you a fine-looking young lad. You must be Rosse’s eldest.”
“I’m Lord Marston,” the boy said with a smug look that Charles wanted to smack off his face. “Who are you?”
“Why, I’m a friend of your mother’s.” Charles smiled as he wiped the slime off his face, vowing revenge on the little bastards as soon as he had Plum in his grip.
“What are you doing here?” the tall girl next to Rosse’s whelp asked.
That must be Rosse’s daughter. Charles leered at her and thought about taking the girl aside, but time was of the essence. He had to leave his letter in Plum’s bed and escape before any adults noticed his presence. The children were of no consequence—he never believed a thing his own children told him; no doubt Rosse and Plum were the same way. Regretfully he swallowed his desire for the girl.
“Which way is your mother’s chamber?” he asked, gritting his teeth. “I have a little present I want to leave her.”