The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora Read online

  "You expect me to believe in this...olive branch?" He spat the words, half laughing. He did not trust her for a breath, he realized. His own mother and he did not trust a hair on her head.

  "It is the only way forward, unless you prefer that we go on as we have, until there is a chasm between us too great ever to be crossed. Nicholas has lost his mother. Shall he lose his grandmother too?"

  Nicholas. When had she ever concerned herself with Nicholas?

  Before he could reply that her absence in the young man's life would not differ greatly from her presence, the door behind him opened. He smelled her violet fragrance at once. She must have been eavesdropping, too curious to stay away.

  "Your grace," she said, "please forgive the interruption, but, on my own behalf, I accept your kind invitation to dinner at Castle Malgrave."

  "Flora!" He spun around. "Do not interfere. This is not for you to—"

  "For me to meddle in? This affects me too, does it not? I too was invited, so may I not speak for myself? We are not bound to each other with shackles." She walked forward boldly, putting herself between mother and son. Almost as if she had known he was close to throwing the dowager out of the house and she came to restrain him. She smiled. "I am nobody's property and I have a mind of my own, thank you."

  "Is that so?" he replied dully, his head aching. "I am shocked to hear it." Where the devil were her shoes again? She seemed to think that warm, dry weather was an excuse to go barefoot again as often as possible. Or had she taken her shoes off just to discombobulate the dowager? Maxim knew his lover liked to shock. Teased him for being predictable.

  His mother was momentarily caught off guard by Flora's sudden appearance and her audacity— not to mention her humble form of dress. Yes, those frosty eyes went at once to those naked feet and worked their way up like a butcher's knife through fresh kill. But she recovered her aplomb in time to answer Flora's respectful curtsey with a stiff bend of her head. "I shall look forward to welcoming you in Suffolk, Lady Flora. Shall we say this Wednesday at eight o' the clock?"

  "I am not inclined to travel this week," Maxim snapped. "It is not convenient."

  "Then we'll both have some discomfort to overcome," his mother replied sharply. "It is only fair, I think, that we both make a sacrifice if we are to reach an amicable truce."

  Flora remained calm and smiling, ignoring the tension in the room. "It is an excellent idea, your grace, and so good of you to come all this way in person."

  Maxim shot her a sour look, but she ignored that too.

  Naturally, he could not let her go into the lion's den alone, even if she thought herself strong enough to face her detractors at this heinous dinner his mother planned. He had no choice but to agree that he would go too.

  His mother sat there looking smug and victorious. And then she asked Flora to walk out with her to the carriage. He stepped out of the way, hands behind his back before they might put themselves around his mother's throat. There was nothing more to be said.

  * * * *

  "I understand that Bridget, Lady Manderby, your great aunt, left you a sapphire necklace in her will."

  Of all the things she'd expected this woman to remark upon during their short walk across the yard, this was not one of them. "Yes." Might as well be honest. "I was just as surprised as most people by her generosity."

  "Generosity." The dowager laughed coldly. "It was pure spite, madam. She knew that by leaving that necklace to you she threw salt in my wounds."

  "Your wounds, your grace? I do not follow."

  "That necklace was mine. Or it was supposed to be mine. She stole it from me, just as surely as she stole my lover— the man who gave it to her. He bought it for me, but we quarreled. Bridget Manderby took advantage of her moment and stepped into his bed, into my place and into my sapphire necklace."

  So this, Flora realized in astonishment, was the woman her great aunt had once laughed about scornfully, when she first showed her that secret box of jewelry.

  Certain other ladies with whom he dallied are still, to this day, poisoned by their own bitter envy over this gift. One of them in particular claims that these pearls and sapphires should have been hers, but here they are mine...mine. It must kill her each time she sees me wearing them.

  It was true then that nobody could hold a grudge quite so long as a Malgrave.

  "Now I must see you, an unworthy trollop, wearing my sapphires. An even greater insult."

  Flora smiled broadly. "How nice it is, madam, that we are all seeking a— what was it you called it?— an amicable truce."

  The dowager threw her a filthy look and snapped at the footman to open the carriage door. "She blamed me, I suppose, when her matrimonial schemes for you and the duke came to naught."

  "Oh no, madam, I don't believe that she ever knew how you intercepted Maxim's last letter to me."

  The lady's lips parted in a tense 'o', her eyes flinching.

  Flora had overheard the conversation about Plumm's history. It did not sound as if Maxim believed what his mother told him, but Flora heard the truth in at least part of it. Her dreams involving the cabin boy named Plumm seemed ever more real, but none of it made sense to her. She was seven and thirty, but clearly had memories, or an awareness, of a life lived fifty years ago.

  Matters were coming to a head. Ever since she found her portrait inside Maxim's watch-case, she felt the inevitable tug of a forceful tide sweeping her back out to sea. Back into the fog.

  "Until Wednesday, your grace. Good day." She dropped another curtsey and walked back to where Maxim stood, stonily watching the departure with Captain Fartleberries by his feet.

  "Do you not even wave to your mama?" she asked.

  "No."

  "Waving is for ordinary, common folk, I suppose."

  He did not answer immediately, too preoccupied, it seemed, with more important matters. Both she and Maxim were aware of the dangers to which they exposed their relationship by attending this dinner party. It would give many the opportunity to cut them publically, others the chance to criticize and speculate. A baptism by fire, but they could not hide from it forever.

  As she could not hide from her fate. Strange, awful, bloody fate. Time and time again.

  "This is no olive branch," he muttered.

  No, she— the "unworthy trollop"— suspected not. Best not mention that to Maxim. She did not want him fighting her battles.

  The first volley of shot had been fired across the bow. From both sides.

  * * * *

  She decided to wear her raspberry and gold gown, with Martha's help to make a few fixes. There was not time to have a new dress made and this one was the best she had kept, the one remnant from her life as the merry widow. She would wear her silk slippers too— those that Maxim had bought for her at Christmas, with the ribbons. It was not exactly a dancing affair, but she did feel rather giddy and light-headed when she thought of walking back into Castle Malgrave, a place she had not been since she rejected his marriage proposal. It was as if she'd been spun around a ballroom at speed and then let go. What damage would she do there, this time?

  At first, she thought she would take Great Aunt Bridget's sapphires, just to see the dowager's eyes water, but at the last moment she changed her mind. They did not suit the dress; they did not truly suit her.

  Before they left Darnley for the two-day journey into Suffolk, she took her great aunt's necklace back out of the trunk and gave it to Martha Grey.

  "Keep it safe for me." And because she did not know how this would all end, she added, "If I should not return here, the necklace is yours, Martha. Let it be payment for all your kindness to me and your loyalty in staying by my side."

  "Oh, madam, I couldn't—"

  "Master Plumm will help you sell it, if need be. He can find a discreet buyer, and I'm sure the coin will be more use to you than the sapphires. Take it and make a new life for yourself, wherever you want to go. Remember you're a free woman, Martha. Make the most of it." She was also oblig
ed to leave her dog behind. "Look after him for me until his grace returns. Then look after them both, if you can."

  "But, madam, surely you'll be back soon."

  She kissed the dear lady on her cheek. "Yes, I expect I shall. But not quite as you see me now. Not in these shoes."

  She did not know why she thought this, but she did. Another of her instincts.

  * * * *

  The journey into Suffolk was uneventful for the first several miles. They were both quiet, deep in their own thoughts. Finally, to break the foreboding quiet, she said merrily, "This is the first time you and I have ever traveled together in a carriage, Fred."

  "Yes."

  "I used to imagine that all sorts of naughtiness went on in such situations."

  "You imagined?"

  "Well, in books and— oh, don't mind me. Just thinking out loud." She knew he didn't like that. Preferred to keep his thoughts to himself and never understood why others could not do the same.

  It was a bumpy ride, the road very poor and the hired carriage not equipped with a padded seat. Despite her fevered imaginings about wicked liaisons in carriages, the most contact she had with Maxim was when they bounced violently over a rut and she slid along the painted wood to collide with his thigh.

  "I suppose you're missing your personal carriage at this moment," she muttered, reaching for the leather strap above the door to keep her insides from being knocked about like a sack of rocks over a navvy's shoulder. Her teeth chattered. "I'm sure it's much more comfortable than this one."

  "Hmm."

  "Oh, what is the matter, Fred? Do talk to me. I feel as if I'm going to my execution."

  "Well, you wanted to go," he growled. "Let's get it over with, you said."

  "If a person extends an olive branch one ought to accept."

  "She has something up her sleeve. You're no fool, Flora. You know that as well as I."

  "But let us be reasonable, Fred. If you and I are to spend the rest of this life together, we'll have to deal with her somehow. We cannot pretend she does not exist. Let her see we are not afraid and that we are happy together. You cannot lock her up in a dungeon."

  "Can't I? I shall consult with Plumm and see if it cannot be managed. Somehow."

  "Don't be daft, Fred." Reaching for the sash window she tugged it down to let a little fresh air in. It was awfully hot in that carriage and stuffy. "I heard what she said about Plumm, by the way. Do you believe it?"

  "Yes."

  She looked at him in surprise. "No doubt?"

  "None at all." He stared out of his window, his face unreadable to her.

  "Will you...will you dismiss him from your service?"

  He gave a snort. "Of course not. Why would I?"

  "A criminal, your mother said. A mutineer. Consorted with pirates." With Rosie Jackanapes.

  He scratched his cheek and then tore his gaze from the scenery to meet her astonished face. "I knew of Plumm's past, Flora. I've known the story for twenty years. My grandfather took him from the Marshalsea and gave him an education, thought him worthy of a second chance in life. Years later, qualifications in hand, Plumm repaid that faith by working for my father, devoting himself to the Malgrave estate for the next thirty-eight years of his life. He doesn't know that I'm aware of this and apparently the dowager thinks she's the only soul capable of uncovering other folk's secrets."

  "But you didn't tell her that it was your grandfather who—"

  "I prefer to let her stew in ignorance. She does it so well."

  She sat back, letting this news ferment a while.

  "The fourth duke," he added, "was a generous gentleman who never wanted recognition for his charitable works and sought only to make the world a better place, to share his own good fortune. He wanted nobody to know what he did."

  "No wonder Plumm is so faithfully devoted."

  "You seem startled," he commented wryly. "Did you not think a Malgrave capable of compassion?"

  "You believe in second chances too, like your grandfather?" Hope.

  He thought about it, his head on one side. "I suppose I must. Does that surprise you too?" He gave a soft laugh and shook his head. "You and I may not agree on everything, Flora, and I daresay we never shall. You will always think me an arrogant tyrant, and I shall occasionally think you too stubborn and puzzling, with your strange ideals of equality, but I do try to be fair. I try to be just. When I lay down my head every night, I like to know I've done my best. It is all any man can hope for. In that, I suppose, we are all alike."

  And she loved him then more than ever.

  Second chances. If he believed in them, he might forgive her for deceiving him about her identity.

  He would be just and fair and honest.

  Then she ought to be the same to him.

  They had planned to break their journey on the border between counties, spending the night at the only coaching inn for miles. She had heard it was a pretty spot, but since they approached as night fell and a summer storm hung thick in the air, ready to burst over their heads, there was no opportunity to see much.

  Other folk at the inn looked up from their suppers, studying the new arrivals with unabashed curiosity. The hired carriage bore no crest, and they traveled under the names of Master and Mistress Darnley, but Maxim's bearing and that commanding manner could not be concealed for long.

  "You should have grown your beard back," she whispered as the innkeeper lead them upstairs to their room for the night. "And put on your old coat."

  He looked at her then as if he really wished he could.

  She took his hand. "But this is time to end our disguises." Ready to tell him everything now, she was poised on the brink, already feeling lighter with that decision made.

  But as the innkeeper stood aside in the narrow corridor, and they entered the room at the top of the stairs, Flora realized that her words had been prophetic. Although she had meant to tell him everything tonight, it was no longer necessary.

  They were not alone.

  The fire was lit, and two candles stood upon the round table before it. A supper had been laid there, presumably for them, but five other people waited in that small room. It was crowded.

  Like a courtroom at the trial of an infamous highwayman. Or a pirate.

  "What the devil is this?" Maxim exclaimed as the door closed behind them.

  His mother was there in a hooded cloak, along with George Tarleton, who appeared drunk already, and Harriet Seton. The other two men in the room were not recognizable. One was very grim, dour; the second looked slightly confused and uncomfortable, eyeing the roasted beef on the table as if he would like to sink his teeth into it.

  "Since you would never listen to me, I decided to bring evidence for you to see with your own eyes and hear with your own ears," said his mother, letting the hood of her cloak fall back. "Did you really think I would tolerate that woman at my table? Present her to my friends?"

  Oddly enough, at that moment she glanced at her trunk and thought of her best gown. It would not now be worn after all. She had looked forward to dressing up again for one evening. How sad. How terribly sad.

  She turned her eyes away from the dowager's spiteful countenance and saw then a spider's web attached to a corner of the Tudor linen-fold wall paneling. It looked thick, as if it had housed a dozen or so families of arachnids during its lifetime. No maid had touched it with her duster for many a year and the only thing that disturbed it was a slight draft of air from the window. Or the chimney. There it lurked, an intricate, sticky trap, waiting for another victim.

  "I knew you were up to something," Maxim replied to his mother. But they had not been prepared for an ambush like this. He had clearly expected his mother to wait until they arrived at Castle Malgrave.

  "I wanted this matter dispensed with away from the estate," she said. "She will never darken its doors."

  "You refer, madam, to Malgrave? To my estate."

  Now George Tarleton, leaning by the fireplace, let out a low burp. "I w
arned you, you blackguard. Thought you could wrestle me to the ground and send me on my way. Always thought yourself so much better than everybody," he slurred, rocking on his feet as he left the safety of the mantle and stumbled against the table. "I ought to bring suit against you for this." He pointed a finger at his cheek to a very faint, barely noticeable white scar.

  Harriet put a spidery hand on his arm. "Let us not forget why we are here." And her gaze met Flora's, her eyes cold and hateful. "To deal, once and for all, with her villainy. I am sure Sir Henry would like to proceed."

  His mother made the introductions now as if they were at a dinner party, as if there was nothing strange about any of it. "This is Sir Henry Mulvey."

  "I know Sir Henry," said Maxim, as the other man bowed.

  "You will also know that he is the Justice of the Peace for this borough."

  A few miles before this and they would have still been within the jurisdiction of the Marquess of Holbrooke— Persey's step-son. Many miles closer to Castle Malgrave and they would have been in Maxim's territory. The dowager had carefully selected this spot so that there was no chance of bias in Flora's favor. Very clever.

  "But what, pray tell, is he doing here," Maxim demanded, "dragged away from his good supper for this foolishness?"

  Flora had taken a step back, already feeling removed from the drama, finding the edges of this scene beginning to fade away to black. But she would not faint. She was determined about that. Fainting was a poor excuse and one used by women who wore their corsets too tightly laced. She had got herself into this and she would face the law, as she always faced her consequences.

  "You will not know this man, however, your grace," said Harriet Seton, now drawing the confused-looking gentleman into the light. "Edward Godfrey." She paused. "Perhaps you are acquainted with him...Lady Flora?"