Cut from the Same Cloth Page 8

  “Sometime this age, if you please.” She tapped her toe and leaned against the door.

  He stretched out his arm, mimicking a great stage actor.

  “Here is a gift for you, my sweet.

  Perchance to see what might’ve been,

  To dream of what might yet be.

  Ponder the raiment of lilies, dear.

  What radiant cloaks they might wear?

  Or not wear, when next they meet?”

  He lowered his arms indicating his performance was over.

  “Go on. Where’s the rest of it?”

  “That’s it, miss.”

  “Hardly a poem, is it? An abysmal ditty, at best. He required you memorize that? In the middle of the night.” She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “You have my sympathy. He might just as well have written it on a scrap of paper and told you to toss it at me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, miss. It’s as fine a poem as any, I expect. Rhymes, true enough, don’t it? Sweet. Meet. Dear and wear. P’rhaps not exact, but it sounds—”

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth had enough of St. Evert’s pathetic poetry and his absurdly devoted manservant. She seized the bundle from him and pushed the door shut with her foot. Carrying the gift to her bed, she set down the lamp, untied the knot, folded back the paper, and unfurled the contents. There on her bed lay the most horrid coat in all of creation. A coat made out of the exact fabric of her gown. She held it up to the light.

  “Good heavens. I must say, he was right. It is a great deal more interesting than the dull thing he wore tonight.” Elizabeth ran her fingertips over the orange satin collar. The preposterous coat would have made a mockery of her dress. It would have been the laughingstock of the ball, of the season. She would have been teased and mocked for months.

  Why hadn’t he worn it?

  The ridiculous thing smelled vaguely of him. Pressing the collar to her nose, she recognized the smell of his shaving soap and that other scent, the musky male scent that spoke only of him. Elizabeth slid her arms into the sleeves and smiled at the way they hung down past her fingers.

  What had he said in the poem? Something about lilies, my sweet, when next we meet. She ran to the door and threw it open. Where had that idiot servant gotten to? She had to hear that poem one more time. Had it been a warning or a promise?

  The hall stretched empty and dark in both directions. The marble floor felt cool on her bare feet as she tiptoed away from her room. Thinking she heard the rustle of movement, she turned and whispered, “St. Evert?” There was only stillness in response.

  Silly that she should call his name. Sillier still that she should think he might appear in her hallway in the middle of the night. Even more absurd, the dreadful sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach when he did not.

  She murmured his name one more time and reluctantly turned back to her room. Her mind was playing tricks on her now. She thought she glimpsed his shadow at the end of the hall. Imagined him reaching for her. She must be delirious for want of sleep. His poem had sounded more like a warning, a threat, than... than what?

  What had she hoped it might be? Foolish girl. Ladies must not lose their heads nor their hearts. She shut her door and leaned against it, listening for the sound of his footsteps. Unsure of what she would do if she heard them.

  * * *

  The remainder of the night, Lord St. Evert twisted and yanked on his bedcovers, mauling them into tangled disarray during a dismal attempt to sleep. He kept hearing Elizabeth call him, whisper his name. But of course, that was ridiculous. She held him in contempt. Typical behavior of her inbred aristocratic species. Gad, how grateful he was for having a commoner for a mother. He couldn’t stomach the ton and their haughty ways. A wagonload of pampered milksops, the lot of them. It was nearly choking the life out of him to play their game. He put his pillow over his head to drown out the sound of her voice calling him.

  “Lord St. Evert? Capt’n. Wake up, sir. You give me orders, sir. I was to wake you. Now, have pity on me and wake up. Captain.”

  “Sergeant Biggs, if that is you. I will have you drawn and quartered.”

  “Very well, captain, but I was doing no more’n my duty. Following your orders, sir. The young lady received a note. She left the house not five minutes ago.”

  Valen tossed the pillow to the end of the bed and sat up. “What note? From who?”

  “Well, it weren’t from the Queen Mother, I can tell you that. Written on plain paper, and whoever it was only give the maid a ha’penny to deliver it directly to the lady.”

  Valen swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “And you’re just now telling me about it? Devil take it, man. Where are my boots?”

  “I expect you’ll be needing a good deal more than that. The watch might be alert to a fellow wearing nothing save his boots.” Biggs handed him a stack of clothing.

  “For pity’s sake. Don’t stand there jawing me to death. Get the rest of my gear.”

  Biggs hurried to the wardrobe. “Just making a point, sir. P’rhaps you ought to wear a nightshirt to bed, like a proper gentleman.”

  “London is corrupting you, Biggs. A gentleman may wear whatever the hell he wants or nothing at all if he chooses. What time is it, anyway?”

  “Eight of the clock, your honor.”

  “What can she be doing at this hour?” Valen pulled on his trousers.

  “I’ve no notion. Will you be requiring the short sword, my lord?”

  “Most assuredly. And the pistol, I think.”

  “Pistol. Right you are. Will you be wanting me to come along then?”

  Valen buttoned the top of his cambric shirt and slid into the long coat Biggs held out for him. “I would if you weren’t gadded up like a butterfly in that blasted livery. But no, you’ll slow me down if I have to wait.”

  Biggs’s shoulders slumped slightly.

  “Perhaps next time. Now, tell me, did you observe her direction?”

  “O’ course I did. Watched her from the window.” Biggs followed him down the stairs, relating everything he’d seen.

  Valen rubbed at his unshaven chin. He had a fair notion where Lady Elizabeth might be headed.

  11

  Smashed Strawberries and Buttercup Silk

  Elizabeth hurried down Water Street. Early in the morning, it bore nothing of the pleasant bustle it would acquire later in the day. The scant passersby trudged dourly about their business without exchanging a nod. She pressed the handle and entered the shop. “Mr. Smythe?”

  The curtain dividing the room stirred. Mr. Smythe pushed it aside. “Ah! You’ve arrived at last. This way, my lady.” He waved her into the back room. “He’s here, and none too happy for the wait.” Mr. Smythe hurried to the door she’d just entered and threw the bolt, locking it. “Quickly. We must be discreet.”

  “I should be more comfortable out here at the counter.”

  “He won’t like it. Has all the prime goods in the back room. Spread out on a table like a veritable feast. I told him you were a lady. So he’s done it up proper. But he don’t have all day. Getting an itchy foot this very minute.”

  “Very well.” She ducked hesitantly under the curtain into the dimly lit warehouse area. There was, indeed, a grand display of silks spread on a long table. Beside the colorful array of fabrics stood a gentleman clad in an elegant black coat. She knew in a trice, simply by the cut of his coat and his bearing, the cloth would be too expensive. Still, perhaps, she might bargain with him. Elizabeth could not resist fingering a soft, nearly translucent, peach sarcenet. It felt as if it had been woven from a cloud. “Divine.”

  He inclined his head to her, as would a man of rank. “You have excellent taste, Lady Elizabeth.”

  She detected the faintest hint of a French accent, expertly disguised. An Englishman might affect a French accent, but he would not then strive to hide it. “And you are?”

  “A simple merchant, at your service.” He bowed without any of the self-consciousness of a tradesman.

>   “Hmm.” She turned over the corner of a cream-and-purple paisley so deftly woven that she could find no trace of the warp threads. “This is exquisite. So exquisite, in fact, that I am certain your wares are beyond my touch.” She turned to go.

  “Before you leave, my lady, allow me, if you please, to show you a very special silk. It is as if it were made expressly for you.”

  She hesitated. What would it hurt to look? On the other hand, it might hurt a great deal. She’d already seen two pieces of cloth she would not easily forget. Her lack of funds made it all quite impossible. “I am very sorry. Mr. Smythe promised me something unique. I had no idea he would find such fine-quality silks. These are not mere fabrics. They are works of art. You deserve far more for them than I can give.” She brushed the curtain aside and hurried out.

  Mr. Smythe rushed after her. “Lady Elizabeth, wait. Can you not at least look at the silk he selected for you? A man of such superior discrimination. Are you not curious?”

  His words brought her to a halt beside the counter. She could not deny it—she was curious. Elizabeth turned around. An act she would regret for the rest of her life.

  The Frenchman held in his hands a neatly folded pile of buttercup-yellow brocade. Its raised pattern was an intriguing tangle of vines with thorns and blackberries, woven of a soft sunshine yellow. Elizabeth caught her breath and could not look away.

  “Yes. I thought as much.” He spoke softly, as if he were seducing her, unfurling the cloth onto the counter. “It is perfectly suited to your dark hair and the snowy cast of your skin. You and this silk were made for one another. Allow me to show you.”

  He turned her toward an oval mirror on the wall and draped the cloth over her shoulder and under her chin. He was absolutely right. Fascinating. She ought to have been born wearing that color.

  The Frenchman stood over her shoulder looking into the glass with her. “You see what I mean? It is—” He froze, frowning at something in the glass.

  Elizabeth noticed it then, the reflection of a man outside the window, peering in at them, Lord St. Evert.

  The merchant spun around. The silk, forgotten, sailed to the floor, brilliant warm yellow sliding across the dirty brown boards. Elizabeth clung to the length still draped over her shoulder.

  The Frenchman, no longer charming and seductive, turned on Smythe, full of anger. “You bastard! You betrayed me.”

  Elizabeth gasped at his sudden fury.

  Smythe backed up, nearly crashing into the bins behind the counter. “What are you on about? I ain’t betrayed no one.”

  “Then what is he doing here?” He gestured toward the window. Lord St. Evert had turned away, but still stood out on the street. “I know this man.” He spit on the floor, nearly striking the yellow silk. “Did you think his feeble disguise would fool me? I do not easily forget a man who chases me half way across the continent.”

  Smythe’s voice squeaked with fear. “I know nothing of disguises. Don’t know who he is, I tell you.”

  Elizabeth shook her head, trying to comprehend the man’s anger. She was certain it was Lord St. Evert standing outside the shop. “Mr. Smythe is right. You’ve mistaken the man’s identity.”

  “No mistake. One does not forget the Red Hawk.” The silk merchant, who now appeared to be anything but simple, pulled a pistol from the inside of his coat and leveled it at Smythe. “Sniveling traitor. How much did the king’s henchmen pay you, eh? Thirty pieces of silver? I hope you will enjoy it in hell.”

  Smythe shook his head, continuing to back up. “No! Merót, for pity’s sake. Why would I peach on you? I’m perfectly satisfied with the blunt you—”

  Merót fired.

  Elizabeth jumped back.

  The blast reverberated through the room, ringing in her ears. Smythe slammed sideways. He slid to the floor. Eyes wide, surprised.

  Red. The color of smashed strawberries, trickled out of his chest. Spreading like an ink spill. Growing rapidly into a wine spill. Only it was blood.

  She stood paralyzed. Stunned. For how long, she didn’t know. It felt like hours, like time itself had stopped moving. It might have been minutes. Hours. Or mere seconds. Acrid smoke stung her lungs. A sound came from her mouth. Ladies do not bellow. Yet, Elizabeth screamed. Until yellow fabric twisted around her neck, shutting off the sound.

  Silk, made especially for her, crushed her throat, choking her to silence.

  The French merchant’s voice mixed with the ringing in her ear. “You led him here, didn’t you? Spying for the Hawk. Didn’t he warn you? I do not tolerate deceit. If I had time to reload, you would already be dead.”

  He twisted the fabric tighter, arching her backward. Elizabeth’s head throbbed. The ceiling turned gray, and a million tiny dots of light fluttered around the edges. Blood pounded at her temples. Thumping. Banging. Banging. Or was that someone pounding at the door.

  Struggling to keep from drowning in the watery gray of unconsciousness, she heard wood splinter. The silk merchant swore and shoved her to the floor.

  Elizabeth gasped, tearing at the coiled cloth around her neck, and coughed as air rushed back into her lungs.

  “Izzie!”

  “Valen.” She gasped. “Thank God.”

  St. Evert lifted her to her knees and yanked away the rest of the yellow silk. “Izzie? Can you breathe?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re certain?”

  As reason returned, she knew what must be done. She fell forward, clutching his shoulders, wheezing her desperate plea beside his cheek. “Catch him.” She pointed at the curtain.

  He held her in one arm and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I can’t leave you. You’ve been hurt.”

  She shook her head. “You must. Go. I beg you.” She struggled to breathe evenly enough to convince him. “Please.”

  “Right.” He wasted no time dashing through the curtained doorway.

  Elizabeth sank back on her haunches, still fighting to regulate her breath and slow her mad heartbeat.

  Elizabeth glanced up when someone whistled softly through his teeth. “Cor’ bless me. If this isn’t a fine pickle.” The stranger roamed in through the fractured door.

  “Summon the ward, or a constable,” she ordered.

  “Bit late for that, I’d say. I am the constable, miss.” He warily approached Mr. Smythe and stooped to check for a pulse. “He’s dead, he is.” He frowned at her. “A bit of a tangle, this.” He rubbed at his chin, clearly uncertain as to how to proceed. “Not a simple thing. Not as if your purse has been nabbed, now, is it? No. Bit more complicated. I expect the magistrate will want Bow Street for a job like this.”

  “Well, don’t stand there jabbering about it. Summon Bow Street. And hurry! Lord St. Evert is chasing the madman by himself. If you delay any longer, there may well be two murders rather than one.”

  Elizabeth winced. It was the truth. What had possessed her to send St. Evert chasing after the murderer? He might very well end up in the same condition as Mr. Smythe. She grabbed her reeling head, fighting an urge to be sick.

  How had she expected Valen to apprehend a lunatic? A lunatic with a pistol? She gingerly touched her bruised throat. Her wretched heart began thumping unevenly again. Why had she sent him into certain danger? Because, God forgive her, she was afraid. Every instinct she possessed screamed out in fear that Merót would return and finish what he’d started.

  Those wretched tiny sparks at the edges of her vision returned, flickering in a whirling cloud. She vaguely heard the constable order one of the curious lads peeping in the doorway to hurry off to Bow Street and call for a Runner. It seemed like a perfectly good time to swoon.

  12

  Looming Considerations

  When Elizabeth awakened, St. Evert was carrying her into a soothing white room. “Are we dead?”

  “Not I,” he answered cryptically. “And you?”

  His sarcasm was oddly reassuring. Elizabeth began to recognize her surroundings. They were entering Alis
on Hall. “I fainted?”

  “So it would seem.” He carried her up the stairs.

  “But... I’m not the swooning type.”

  “I hadn’t thought so.”

  Yet, she had fainted and instantly recalled the reason why. Panic reared up in her throat, gagging her. “Did you catch him?”

  There were no dimples to relieve the hard lines of his face. “No. But you must not think about that. Try to breathe evenly.”

  Don’t think about it, she ordered herself. Never think about it. And yet, she could not escape. The images of it repeated themselves over and over in her mind. They finally reached the top of the stairs and the familiar hallway leading to her room. Leaning against his chest, she forced herself to take regular breaths instead of the great gulps she was wont to do.

  St. Evert laid her on her bed, and it seemed as if the entire household had followed them up. A handful of servants buzzed around them, and Lady Alameda stood in the doorway.

  “What in heaven’s name happened to her?” She had her hands on her hips and looked quite vexed. “She’s as white as my boiled egg, which is, at this very moment, downstairs getting cold.” She pointed at the doorway and then used the same finger to shake at them. “Whyever must you two engage in these early morning exercises? I cannot recommend vigorous activity before breakfast. And here’s my proof. I daresay the poor child fainted from lack of sustenance.”

  St. Evert dropped into the chair across from the bed. “No. It took a good deal more than missing her breakfast to do the job. What say you, Lady Elizabeth? Would you care to have a plate of eggs and fish brought to your room?”

  The very thought made Elizabeth’s stomach lurch. She scrunched up her nose and turned her head, pressing a hand against her lips.

  Valen addressed his aunt. “I believe that will have to pass for ‘Thank you very much, but no, I would prefer weak tea and toast.’”

  Lady Alameda ignored him and demanded, “What happened? Where have you been?”