Trouble With Harry Page 28

  Sir Paul’s head came up, his face filled with scorn and condemnation. “Does it matter? The fact is that your wife is a pornographer. That alone would be grounds for her arrest.”

  “I think not,” Harry said smoothly. Plum eyed him warily, worried about the lack of emotion on his face. The sense of an animal about ready to spring was heightened by the way Harry moved toward Sir Paul, every movement filled with masculine grace and strength. “Plum? Who are the only people who know the identity of Vyvyan La Blue?”

  “You, Thom, my friend Cordelia, who would never reveal it, Mr. Belltoad the publisher, and Charles.”

  Sir Paul started to protest, but Harry’s voice cut across it like a lash. “And of those five people, who do you imagine to be the most likely to tell Sir Paul who you were?”

  She looked at the older man, noticing the line of perspiration across his brow. “I would imagine Charles would be the most likely.”

  “That is ridiculous—”

  “SILENCE!” Harry roared. His voice dropped to its normal volume, although he still spoke in that controlled manner that warned Plum he was incredibly angry. If he was suspecting the same thing she was, he had every right to be furious. “I concur with your reasoning, Plum. If we follow that idea to its logical conclusion, we must assume that in order to have heard from de Spenser the truth about Vyvyan La Blue, he must also have met Charles. Perhaps he met him last night. In the evening. As de Spenser left our home, driven out by the children, fleeing into the night like the coward he was.”

  Sir Paul made an inarticulate choking sound, but said nothing.

  “But how would he know Charles came to the house?” Plum asked, keeping one eye on the head of police. “How could he have seen Charles leave unless he was—oh!”

  “Yes.” Harry nodded, slowly approaching Sir Paul. “He would have seen de Spenser leave only if he was passing at that moment—a coincidence so unlikely I won’t even entertain it—or if he was watching the house.”

  “The children,” Plum breathed, her hands fisting as anger rose inside her. “He’s the man who kidnapped the children! He’s the one who threatened them, who tried to hurt them.”

  Sir Paul stumbled backward as she lunged toward him, but Harry caught her and pulled her back before she could do more than inflict a few scratches.

  “Everything you said has been the merest speculation,” Sir Paul said heavily. With a swift move he pulled a pistol from inside his coat, pulling back the hammer as he pointed it at Plum. “You have no proof, and as long as I am in charge of the police, you will not be able to buy justice with your wealth or title. Your wife will be found guilty of murder based on the evidence I supply the magistrate. She will be hanged, and you, my Lord Rosse, will be left to go on, to suffer long after justice has been carried out.”

  “But why?” Plum asked Harry, her eyes on the man who stood before them. Harry looked completely bored, but she could feel the tension in the arm he slid around her.

  “Sir William Stanford was Sir Paul’s brother. Why was the letter your brother sent you delayed? Or did it arrive fifteen years ago, but you took the time to make your fortune in Canada before seeking revenge?”

  “So that self-righteous bastard of a valet turned it over to you after all? I should have taken care of him when I had the chance. William gave the letter to some damn fool servant who forgot about it. When he died earlier this year, the letter was found in his effects and sent on to me.” Sir Paul’s lip curled as he hurled curses at Harry. “I swore that I would have vengeance on you and your family for taking my brother’s life. You could have kept the manner of his death hidden, given him a hero’s burial, but you didn’t. You made sure that bit of scandal was on everyone’s lips, laughing at him, mocking him, mocking me for being brother to a coward. The fire in your house, the accidents I so cunningly arranged for your children—they are all on your head. I swore your family would suffer the same as I did when it became known that William took his own life. As for your wife, it was by the merest coincidence that I found out about her secret, but I fully intend to use it to bring about your destruction just as you destroyed my brother.”

  “And what about me?” Harry asked calmly, as if the pistol weren’t pointed at Plum’s breast. Plum became aware that Harry’s hand against her waist was exerting pressure to pull her backward. No doubt the foolish man believed that if he shoved her behind him when he disarmed Sir Paul, he would not be shot because she was his target. That wasn’t true, of course. It was Harry he wanted to destroy. Dear Harry, normally so smart about these things, but this time, so obtuse.

  Sir Paul smiled, a nasty, oily smile of pure malice that sent shivers of horror down Plum’s back. “If you do not allow me to take your wife into lawful custody, you will regrettably be shot and killed while attempting to keep me from the course of my duty. A tragedy, but alas, an unavoidable one.”

  Plum knew Harry was going to strike even before he moved. His fingers tightened on her, jerking her backward as he lunged forward. She was ready for that move, however, and knowing that Sir Paul needed her alive in order to torment Harry, she threw herself between the two men shrieking, “No!” just as Harry grabbed her.

  The blast from the pistol deafened her ears; the smell of gunpowder burned her eyes. Time froze as she stood in front of Harry, watching as surprise dawned in Sir Paul’s eyes. She looked down at herself, amazed to see a bloom of red on her side, quickly soaking her gown in an expanding circle.

  “I was wrong,” she said somewhat bemusedly as Harry snarled an oath, jumping forward to knock the pistol from Sir Paul before grabbing him and slamming him against the wall of the library repeatedly until he hung limply in Harry’s hands. Harry threw the man down, rushing back to where Plum was gently prodding the red stain on her gown.

  “I was wrong. He did shoot me. I don’t understand. I had it all figured out, but he shot me anyway. He wasn’t supposed to. Harry, I’ve been shot. Do you think I should swoon?”

  “Plum, Plum, my beautiful, brave, ridiculously wonderful Plum, you may swoon if you like. I have it on the highest authority that all the best ladies who have been shot do so.” Harry swept her up in his arms, cradling her as if she was made of the costliest porcelain. The strain in his voice warmed her, driving out some of the icy pain that started to throb in her side.

  “Will it harm the babe, do you think?” she asked, suddenly feeling as if Harry was a very long way from her. His voice was distant and hard to make out, and his face seemed to be dimming.

  “No, the babe won’t be harmed. And neither will you. You’ll be fit as ever in just a day or two, you’ll see.”

  “Oh, good. I think I’ll swoon now if you don’t mind. If all the ladies do it, I feel I should, too.” Now her voice sounded distant and strange, as if it belonged to another. She tried to cling to Harry, but couldn’t make her arms work. She relaxed against him, giving up the struggle, sinking silently into the oblivion that claimed her.

  Epilogue

  “You are solely to blame for being in this situation, Plum.”

  “Push, madam.”

  “Oh! I am not! What a thing to say to me!”

  “The blame lies completely on your head,” Harry said, scowling down at her. “I declaim all responsibility. You insisted, if you recall. I said no, I won’t risk your health, but you insisted.”

  “And another one, madam.”

  “Ha! I like that! I never insisted, and you are responsible. If your seed was so potent that it could impregnate me after just a few incidences of spillage, it’s most certainly your fault, not mine.”

  “Perhaps you might put a bit more effort into the next push?” the gentleman lurking at the end of the bed asked her.

  “I’m trying,” Plum snarled at the physician. She had a difficult time seeing him because of the bedclothes heaped on her massive belly. She struggled to sit up so she could give the man a
really good glare, a quality glare, one that he would remember for the rest of his life. Harry, supporting her from behind, immediately came to her assistance, adjusting himself so that she could lean against his chest and level her glare at the physician. “It’s not easy, you know!”

  “I am aware of that fact, Lady Rosse. I am also aware that the babe’s head is about to crown, and in order for it to do so, you need to push. Now, if you have gathered your strength, I believe another contraction is coming. Please oblige me by pushing at the peak.”

  “No one ever told me about this,” Plum gasped, her gasp turning to a shriek as she bore down. Behind her, Harry murmured soft words of love and encouragement as she struggled to keep from shredding the skin on the arms he wrapped around her in support. She thought she was going to be sick from the pain, or swoon, or start shrieking and never be able to stop, but just as the pain grew so great she knew she was going to die from it, she pushed again, bearing down with every last bit of strength she had to rid her body of the invader, as she had taken to thinking of it. She pushed and pushed and pushed until there was nothing but a red well of all-consuming pain.

  “Excellent, madam. A fine job. You may relax for a moment.” The physician turned to his assistant and asked for a cloth.

  Plum collapsed backwards against Harry, her body aching and still screaming with the echoes of agony. “No one told me about the pain,” she gasped, “not the real pain, not what it really feels like, not Delia, not Old Mag, none of the ladies ever told me it was going to be so very bad. All they talked about was the joy of holding their baby in their arms, but did anyone think to tell me that there would be so much pain involved? No, they did not. I am going to have a few words with them, on that you can—”

  The sound of a baby’s squall cut off her words. A tingle swept her body, a wave of joy and love and pride so great it brought tears to her eyes. Harry nuzzled her temple moist with perspiration, his hands warm and comforting beneath her breasts. “I love you, Plum. I love you more than anything I can think of—”

  His words dried up too as the physician presented her with a bundle. “My lord, my lady, your daughter.”

  “A daughter,” Plum said, tears of happiness spilling over her lashes as she took the baby, pulling back the cloth to admire the red-faced, pointy-headed, splotchy-skinned baby who yelled her opinion of the world she’d been pushed into, the volume of her protests indicating she would one day make a very fine opera singer. “She’s beautiful. She’s the most beautiful baby in the world, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she is.” Harry kissed her temple again, reaching forward to stroke the baby’s clenched fists. “The most beautiful baby there ever was.”

  “I think so too. Harry, look! She has toes!”

  “Ten of them, I’ll wager. Shall we count?”

  Delightedly, the new parents counted the baby’s toes, then feeling giddy with delight, counted her fingers as well.

  “Promise me something, Harry,” Plum said some time later when she had been cleaned and the babe tucked in beside her. He leaned across their daughter to kiss her.

  “Anything, my darling,” he said against her lips.

  “It’s about the baby.”

  “Whatever you want, my love. Ponies, toys, the best education, frocks galore—it’s all hers.”

  Plum’s eyes were alight with love as she nipped his lower lip, soothing the sting by sucking it into her mouth for a moment before releasing it. “Promise me she’ll never have children. It’s the most ghastly experience I’ve ever lived through! No woman should have to go through it. You can’t imagine the sort of pain you feel in labor. It’s indescribable, it’s absolutely indescribable, it’s so bad you want to set your hair on fire just to distract yourself from the consuming, absolute horribleness of it all. I will never, ever forget it, it’s bound to haunt me to the end of my days, giving me nightmares with the memory of the torturous, never-ending horror of it all. I think I’d rather be stomped on by a herd of elephants than go through another birth. Truly, the elephants would be nothing compared with the searing, burning, ripping, tearing, soul-rending sort of pain felt during the birth—”

  “As you wish, my darling.”

  The couple was silent for a moment, watching the child they’d made together, until Plum felt the burden of the things she’d said to her beloved husband.

  “Harry?”

  “Hmm?”

  Plum gave him her most winsome smile, which considering the nightmare she’d just been through, said much of her character. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier.”

  “Ah. So you won’t really castrate me with two egg cups and a fish knife if I ever touch you again?” The devilish glint she loved so dearly was back in his eyes.

  “A dull fish knife, and no, I won’t.”

  “That’s reassuring to know.”

  Her winsome smile faded as she adjusted her position, her body protesting the action. “Mind you, if you impregnate me again, I will take your scrotum, pull it over your head, and—”

  “Thank you, my dear, you have made yourself quite clear.” Harry laughed and stopped Plum’s threats with the simple act of kissing her until she had no more breath, standing back when the door flew open and five children and Thom burst into the room, all chattering at once, all excited to see the new baby. Harry’s gaze met Plum’s as the children swarmed the baby, his heart filled with all the love and happiness she had brought him.

  “What are you going to call her?” Thom asked, looking from Plum to him.

  “We haven’t decided yet,” Plum said.

  “I have,” Harry announced, a slow smile filling his eyes with laughter.

  “You have? You said you didn’t have any preference. By what name would you have the baby called?” Plum asked him, her brow wrinkling in a puzzled frown.

  He kissed her again, unable to keep from tasting the sweetness of her lips. His Plum, his delightful, entrancing, beguiling Plum.

  “Vyvyan,” he said. “We’ll call her Vyvyan.”

  And so they did.

  Read on for an excerpt from the brand-new title in the Noble series:

  The Truth about Leo

  A princess strives for modality of both voice and being. Discordant events, such as the refusal by a groom to allow one to ride one’s father’s stallion, are to be greeted with a slightly elevated eyebrow (no more than one quarter of an inch; anything else is considered mannish), and a slightly aggrieved expression. Under no circumstances should carbolic powder be placed in the groom’s underthings so as to ensure unsightly and ceaseless itching of an Unspeakable Body Part.

  —Princess Christian of Sonderburg-Beck’s Guide For Her Daughter’s Illumination and Betterment

  “Princess!”

  Dagmar tapped the end of the quill against her lips and considered best how to answer this latest demand from her cousin.

  “Princess Dagmar!”

  My very dear cousin Frederick, she wrote, then decided that given the tone in her cousin’s letter, the rotter didn’t deserve such niceties.

  Frederick:

  I have received your missive dated today and have to say that I’m shocked that a man who Dearest Papa always insisted had so much potential would use words like “blot on the existence of my life” and “irreverent, mouthy, and in essence, painful to be near” to a lady like me, let alone one of royal blood, but as the good book—and I refer here to my sainted mother’s detailed journal—always says, breeding will tell.

  “Princ—oh, there you are.” A slight form appeared in the open doorway, bobbing a little curtsy before entering the room. “I’ve been hunting all over for you. There’s a drunkard in the garden.”

  I shouldn’t have thought it necessary to point out that the other good book—the Bible—mentions it as a sin to turn one’s back on one’s destitute and orphaned cousins—

  Da
gmar paused, glancing over to where her companion stood patiently waiting to be acknowledged. “Oh, hello, Julia. Do you know what the Bible says about cousins?”

  The slight, blonde woman of forty-some years looked puzzled. “No. What does it say?”

  “That’s what I was asking you.” Dagmar tapped the quill on her lips again. “Is it a sin to claim that the Bible says something if it really doesn’t?”

  “I think it is, yes.” Julia sat, clasping her hands in a pious gesture that just made Dagmar sigh. It wasn’t that she was especially intolerant, or even irreligious, but the truth was that she was forever being taxed with being sinful by her cousin Frederick, who had long claimed that Dearest Papa had let her run wild and had not in the least tiny bit drummed into her how a proper lady should behave.

  “Which is ridiculous, because there’s no way anyone could mistake me for a man,” she muttered, glancing down to where her front was quite obviously not that of a male. “I think they’re getting bigger.”

  Julia considered the offending bosom. “I don’t think so, dear. They look just the same to me.”

  “That’s because you’re around them all the time.” Dagmar gave her front one last dark look. “But my green gown is going to have to be let out again, else I’ll pop out of the bodice. Where was I? Oh, yes, the Bible. Well, it may not be in there, but it should be.”

  “I’m sure you’re correct. Did you not hear me mention that there was a drunkard in the garden?”

  “Yes, I heard you.”

  A slight pause followed, ending when Julia said, in a flustered, breathless manner, “Do you not think anything of this?”

  “Not particularly. Well, to be honest my first thought was to answer ‘When wasn’t there a drunkard in the garden’ but I realized that we haven’t been blighted with over-many garden drunkards in years past, so I decided to keep it to myself.”