Trouble With Harry Page 19

  All the children were present—India was reading a book, McTavish and the twins were rolling on the floor arguing over a wooden figure meant to go in their sailing boats, Thom was chatting with one of the London footmen whose name she couldn’t remember, and Digger was standing at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at her. Behind him, Juan was dressed for the outdoors, holding her parasol and gloves.

  “You’re late,” Digger said with a scornful curl of his lip. “You said ten o’clock. It’s three minutes after!”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said humbly, eyeing Juan as she took the parasol and gloves. “We can get started now if everyone is… Juan, are you accompanying us?”

  Evidently he was waiting for just such an opening, for he flung himself at her feet and scattered wet kisses over the back of her hand. “It will be the greatest joy in my heart to be of the many services to my most very lady.”

  Gently Plum disengaged her hand. “Is it the norm for fashionable butlers to attend their mistresses? I had rather thought that was in the line of a maid or a footman.”

  He got to his feet, giving her a sidelong glance that would have simmered stew. “It depends on the mistress, does it not, delicious one?”

  Plum opened her mouth to dispute the innuendo he was making, then decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. To be truthful, she liked Juan despite—or rather because of—his flirtatious nature. “Well, we shall just have to make it a fashion, shall we not? Are we all ready? Excellent. Off we go.”

  Fortunately for her nerves, she did not have long to wait before her questions regarding Charles and what he wanted were answered. She and Thom were strolling across the park while the children shrieked and ran circles around them when she noticed Charles bowing to her from the back of a bay gelding.

  “I see an acquaintance I must speak to,” she told Thom. “Could you please take the children on to see the Serpentine? Don’t let them go into the water, and don’t let the girls climb any trees, or they’ll tear their gowns, and don’t let the boys pretend they’re beggars and solicit people for money like they did yesterday, and don’t let them—”

  Thom laughed and held up her hand. “I won’t let them do anything but sail their boats.”

  “Thank you,” Plum said with a grateful smile. “I’ll be with you shortly. Juan, you and…er…the footman may attend to Miss Fraser.”

  Juan shook his head, simultaneously waggling his eyebrows. “Harry would not be liking that.”

  “He wouldn’t?” Plum asked, one eye on the approaching Charles.

  “It would not be making him happy, no. He would want me, your Juan of the most devoted nature, to be always at your side, protecting you against the rousing rabble.”

  “Traditionally there are very few rabble-rousers to be found in Hyde Park,” Plum pointed out, shooing him toward Thom. “I will be fine by myself.”

  “I will tear my heart out with my own hands and stomp on it heartily before I abandon the most beloved of all my mistresses,” Juan said with a dramatic flare to his nostrils that warned of the strength of his intentions.

  Plum gave up trying to shoo him away. “Very well, but stay well back. I have no need of your protection now. Go on, Thom. I will meet you later.”

  Thom cast a curious glance to where Charles was dismounting, handing his reins to a groom before strolling toward Plum, but made no further comment as she hurried off after the children. Juan loitered around in the background; she hoped far enough away that he couldn’t overhear her conversation.

  “Charles,” Plum said as he stopped before her, making her an elaborate bow. “I rather suspected I might run into you. I just had no idea it would be so soon.”

  “As effervescent a wit as ever, my dear,” he said, holding out his arm for her. “I find myself unable to pass by the opportunity to have a cozy little chat with you. Shall we stroll in this direction?”

  She scorned the offer of his arm, but began walking in the direction he indicated, thankfully in the opposite direction from the artificial lake where the children had been headed. “About what do you wish to chat? Surely you have little to say to me, and I have nothing pleasant to say to you.”

  “My dear, my dear,” Charles protested in so patently false a tone of dismay that Plum wanted to kick him in the shins. “I am wounded that your thoughts have not softened toward me over the years.”

  “Softened?” Plum asked in mingled horror and fury. “You ruined me, cast me aside without any regard for my well-being or future. For all you knew, I might have been pregnant, and yet you allowed your family to bundle your wife and you off to the Continent without so much as a second thought about me. How is your wife, by the by?”

  “Dead these last seven years, poor soul. I remarried, the daughter of a Greek nobleman, a rather rough girl, but pleasing enough.” Charles tried to chuck her under her chin. She smacked at his hand. “Helena is much more biddable than you were, my dear, but alas, that has its drawbacks. She has not the fire you had in bed—”

  Plum slapped him, as hard as she could with her gloved hand, which unfortunately did not allow her much of a slap. Still, it was better than nothing. “I tolerate your presence here simply because I must know what you want of me, but I will not allow you to abuse me any further, not even verbally—Juan, no, release him, he is not a rabble-rouser.”

  “You struck him the blow,” Juan said, his eyes filled with Basque vengeance as he grabbed Charles by the neckcloth. “Now I must strangle him. Harry would not like it if I did not avenge the dishonor this one has done you.”

  “It’s all right, he simply spoke without thinking. Please release him, Juan,” Plum soothed, pulling the distraught butler from a red-faced Charles.

  Juan allowed himself to be stopped from throttling Charles, but he spat something out to the latter that sounded like a curse before walking a few feet away to seethe in a menacing manner.

  Charles sputtered over the incident until Plum snapped at him. “Stop acting like such an infant, you brought that upon yourself. Now, please do me the kindness of stating your goal without harassing me further—”

  “I can assure you that I have no intention of harassing you,” Charles said, his muddy brown eyes alight with anger. He rubbed his cheek, his lips thinned. “Indeed my thoughts of you have been of quite the opposite variety, especially upon my arrival in Paris last month, when a very interesting tome was placed into my hands, a tome concerning acts of great intimacy that seemed oddly familiar.”

  Ah, now they were arriving to the meat of the discussion. Plum said nothing but raised her brow in imitation of Harry’s best quizzical look.

  “I find myself—naturally, it is embarrassing to have to admit this—in a particularly unpleasant situation of having my funds tied up.”

  Plum almost laughed aloud, a sigh of relief on her lips. Money—that’s all Charles wanted, just money. Both the laughter and sigh dried up as she realized that she had no money whatsoever.

  “As it would appear that the book you so cleverly penned using our experiences together as man and wife—”

  “Illegally man and wife, although you hadn’t bothered to tell me that until it was too late,” Plum couldn’t help but add.

  “—as the sole basis of this, I’m told, very popular book, I cannot help but think that you might be willing to show gratitude and appreciation in a pecuniary sense to one who made the book possible, as it were.”

  “Gratitude,” Plum sputtered, outraged almost to speechlessness. “Appreciation? For ruining me?”

  “Appreciation for me giving you the means to raise yourself from such an ignoble end to the lofty heights of a marchioness.”

  “The Guide had nothing to do with Harry marrying me—”

  Charles bowed to an acquaintance, lifting his hat politely before turning back to Plum. “If you do not lower your voice, my dear Plum, you will find that the sile
nce I suspect you so desperately seek will be of no use.”

  Plum took a deep breath, reminding herself that she had Harry and the children to think of. She couldn’t punch Charles in the nose as he so rightly deserved. “I owe you nothing, Charles, no appreciation, no gratitude.”

  “Alas,” he answered, giving her an odious smile. “I had feared you might adopt such a regrettable attitude. Might I take a moment to remind you of the peculiar situation you find yourself in? From what I gleaned last night at the ball, you have been married to Rosse but a very short time, and no one—other than myself—seems to be aware of the fact that the Marchioness Rosse and the bawdy Vyvyan La Blue are one and the same. I doubt if even your honorable husband is aware of that fact.”

  Plum wanted to deny it, but knew he would see through her lies. She did the best she could to salvage the situation. “Harry knows about you. I told him everything.”

  “Which is why I am taking great pains to avoid that gentleman. From what I hear, he would not be above calling me out, and as you are no doubt aware, my dear, I am a lover, not a fighter.”

  Plum’s stomach roiled at the slimy tone in his voice, but she clenched her hands together in fists to keep from striking out at him. “How much do you want?”

  Charles smiled. “I think the sum of five thousand will suit me. For now.”

  “Five thousand!” Plum gaped at him, her mind boggling at such an amount. “I don’t have five thousand pounds!”

  “No? I would have thought that the proceeds of The Guide to Connubial Calisthenics were ample enough to allow you to share a small portion with the man to whom you owe all.”

  “I haven’t had money from that for years, and I most certainly don’t owe you any of it. As for the figure you named, it is ridiculous. I simply do not have that sort of money.”

  “Ah, but your husband does.” Charles leaned toward her. She recoiled. “I checked on that last night, too. Rosse is one of the richer marquises gracing our fair isle. I am sure that if you put your mind to it, you will come up with some excuse to acquire the money. I understand many ladies have gambling debts for much more.”

  Plum all but spat fury at him, grinding her teeth together and digging her nails into her palms to keep from flying at him. “I am not a gambler,” she finally said, admittedly in a strangled voice.

  Charles shrugged. “I will leave the inventive excuses to you, my dear. I have every confidence that you will not wish to ruin both your recent marriage and your husband’s reputation should word of your literary pursuits be made public.”

  “You’re despicable,” Plum couldn’t help but say. “I thought you were odious twenty years ago, but you’re a vile, disgusting creature now. You make me sick.”

  Charles laughed and captured her hand, pressing his lips to the back of her hand as he made a show of bowing over it despite a growl of objection from Juan. “Do you know, I had not wished to return to England, but now I’m quite looking forward to the future. I anticipate much reward for my past efforts. And speaking of that, do let me know if you are planning a future book.” His gaze raked her in a brazen manner. “I would be very pleased to guide you to further knowledge of connubial exercises.”

  He stepped back before Plum could slap him again (although what she had in mind was more of a fist punched into his stomach), walking back toward his horse as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Juan was at her side in an instant, his jaw set in an aggressive manner as he glared after Charles.

  “That one is the stink most foul. He did not bother you again, beauteous lady?”

  “Not in the way you mean, no.”

  “Are we to go after the diablitos?” he asked, nodding in the direction Thom and the children had disappeared.

  Plum hesitated between following them and returning home to be sick into the nearest receptacle—a result of her discussion with Charles, not of the babe she carried beneath her heart.

  “No, I think not,” she said slowly. “Thom will have no difficulty managing the children—heaven knows they seem to mind her better than me. I think instead I will go home…”

  An idea flared to life within her brain. “No,” she corrected as Juan turned toward home. She pointed to the right, toward Piccadilly Street. “I’ve changed my mind—I wish to go to Old Bond Street. Would you see if a hack is available for hire? It’s a bit of a walk, and I want to visit Hookham’s Library and be home before the children return. I have a great deal of thinking to do, a very great deal, and most of it is unpleasant.”

  Juan said nothing, but set off to find her a hired carriage.

  Charles was going to have to be disposed of, that’s all there was to it. She shied away from the actual word murder but that was the path her thoughts were leading. If she had just herself to think of, she wouldn’t even contemplate such a thing, but there was Harry and the children now. Charles would have to be eliminated.

  “I just hope Hookham’s has a book on how to murder someone without being caught,” she sighed as she walked after Juan.

  ***

  “Good Lord, they’re drowning! Save them! SAVE THEM!”

  Nicholas Britton, the eldest son—albeit illegitimately—of the Earl of Weston, paused in the act of handing a prostitute two shiny new guineas, glancing over toward the artificial lake known as the Serpentine. The prostitute, worried that she wouldn’t get her money, snatched the coins from his hand before scurrying off. Nick paid her no attention as he started toward the lake, his gray eyes narrowing as he watched a familiar young woman with short, curly dark hair rip her shoes from her feet and prepare to dive into the water. Beyond her, a handful of children were shrieking and thrashing in the water, surrounded by a variety of toy boats. Without a thought to anything but the need to save the children, Nick raced toward the water, throwing himself into it without even pausing to remove his boots.

  “Save them!” Thom yelled, pointing at the children. Hampered by her skirts, she was having a hard time reaching them.

  “Stay calm,” he yelled, long powerful strokes bringing him to the children. “I have you, don’t worry. Just stay calm, and I’ll get you out.” He grasped the nearest child around the waist, only to have the child—a boy of some eight or nine years—kick him in the shin and bite his hand.

  “Save them, they’re drowning!” Thom yelled again.

  “I’m trying,” Nick snarled, wrestling with the boy as he reached out to a girl who splashed by him. “Stop struggling, I have you! You’re safe!”

  “Not the children,” Thom yelled, swooping down on one of the boats that floated toward her. “They can swim. The mice, save the mice! They’re drowning!”

  “Mice?” Nick asked, looking at a blue-and-green painted boat that bobbed up and down near him. Sure enough, clinging desperately to the mast was a little white mouse. The child in his arms kicked him in the kidneys, squirming out of his grasp. It was at that point that Nick realized two important things—first, the water was only waist deep; second, that he had risked life and limb to save a mouse.

  Well, to be truthful, the life and limb part was an exaggeration, but it was an exaggeration that Nick felt allowed given the circumstances.

  “Mice?” he bellowed to Thom, who had corralled a second boat and was rescuing its rodent inhabitant. “I jumped into the water fully clothed to rescue mice?”

  “No one asked you to,” Thom said indignantly. Nick tried very hard not to notice the effect of water on light gauze, but it would have taken a saint not to appreciate the lovely lines of Thom’s body, and Nick was no saint.

  “I distinctly heard you say, ‘Save them, they’re drowning.’ If that isn’t asking me to save them—”

  “Them being the mice,” Thom interrupted, reaching for a third boat. The children, having had their dip, scrambled to shore where they called out advice and suggestions for gathering up the remaining boats.

  Nick fish
ed a sodden mouse out of the nearest boat, tossing the boat to shore where it was pounced on by two wet children who argued over its ownership. “I didn’t know you were screaming about the mice, I thought you meant the children were drowning. It was a logical mistake, considering the evidence.”

  “Well?” Thom asked, three drenched mice sitting on her shoulder. She pointed to one last boat, which had floated well out into the middle of the lake.

  “Well what?” he asked, knowing exactly what she wanted.

  “Aren’t you going to get it? The boat could sink at any time.”

  “I am not a mouse rescuer,” Nick said with great dignity, or as great a dignity as one could have standing in a pond fully clothed while clutching a squirming white mouse.

  “No, you’re a burglar, but even burglars can have high morals—at least about some things. You’re not going to be responsible for that poor innocent mouse’s death, are you?”

  “Why not? I don’t see it doing anything to save my life.”

  Thom gave him a look that would have blistered a lesser man.

  Nick splashed his way over to her, admiring against his will how delightfully the damp gown clung to the curve of her hip and the high roundness of her breasts. He thrust the mouse at her, gave her a look that he hoped was stern and unyielding and didn’t in the least show the fact that he was fast becoming utterly besotted by her, and swam out to return the remaining boat and its passenger safely to shore.

  “There, you see? You do have some good in you after all,” Thom greeted him as he sloshed his way to the grassy banks, taking the mouse and boat from him. “I knew you couldn’t be all bad. Digger! Just look at Rupert! He almost drowned!”

  “He almost drowned,” Nick muttered, shaking the water from his boots.