“
Oh,
Stanley.
Do
keep
up.
”
Monty
folded
his
hands
and
grinned.
He
must
have
had
a
grand
idea.
“
I
mean
the
SP,
of
course,
not
your
dear
saintly
horse-of-a-mother.
”
“
You
mean
it?
You
can
stand
here
in
front
of
God
and
good
whisky
and
talk
of
having
a
woman
murdered?
Because
all
of
London
knows
it
’
s
a
woman
writing
those
articles.
Good
lord,
man.
Perhaps
I
don
’
t
know
you
at
all.
Perhaps
you
could
actually
do
the
deed
yourself!
”
“
Oh,
I
would
rather
not
do
the
deed
myself,
of
course.
But
I
suppose
if
I
must…
”
North
couldn
’
t
take
it
anymore.
He
tossed
up
his
hands.
“
I
surrender
as
well,
Monty.
What
are
you
thinking?
You
can
’
t
be
talking
about
having
a
woman
murdered.
”
“
Not
murdered.
Put
down.
Taken
out
of
the
picture—or
the
Capital
Journal
at
least.
”
Monty
leaned
in
and
lowered
his
voice.
“
The
only
way
to
control
a
woman
these
days,
gentlemen,
is
to
marry
her
off.
”
Harcourt rolled back onto his face and mumbled, “I was afraid you would say that.”
Callister
stepped
into
the
library
with
a
small
box
tied
with
string.
North
nodded
his
butler
over
and
reached
for
the
package,
but
the
old
man
shook
his
head.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but this just arrived for Viscount Forsgreen.”
Something
yawned
and
stretched
inside
North
’
s
breast,
something
that
had
been
sleeping
for
years.
Usually,
when
it
woke,
he
drugged
it
with
Brandy
until
it
slept
again.
He
wasn
’
t
sure,
but
it
might
have
been
his
soul.
And
with
some
sort
of
premonition
which
he
’
d
never
been
known
to
possess,
he
suspected
that
thing
within
him
would
somehow
be
affected
by
Stanley
’
s
box.
He
watched,
as
did
they
all,
as
Stanley
slowly
pulled
the
tails
of
the
string,
as
if
they
expected
a
cat
to
jump
out
of
it
any
second.
The string fell away. Nothing happened. Stanley sat the box upon the table, lifted the lid, and set it aside. He frowned, looked at North, then reached inside. He pulled out a pair of spectacles and a bubble burst in North’s chest.
He laughed. Stanley didn’t seem to understand.
“
Who
did
you
tell
about
this
meeting,
Viscount
F
?
”
Monty
had
to
raise
his
voice
to
be
heard.
North
laughed
harder.
Watching
Stanley
’
s
face
as
realization
dawned,
struck
him
as
particularly
amusing.
Or
maybe
it
was
the
joke
played
by
the
Scarlet
Plumiere.
“Poor eyesight.” Harcourt laughed. “I say, she’s a clever minx.”
North agreed. The woman was clever. And she might have just won over his heart, if not his very soul.
CHAPTER
TWO
Capital Journal, Fiction Section, February the Third
A
wild
tale
is
spreading
like
the
black
plague
through
ladies
’
parlors
at
this
very
hour.
Supposedly,
the
men
of
Londonberry,
or
at
least
those
allegedly
eligible
for
marriage,
have
held
a
meeting
in
the
honor
of
a
particularly
talented
writer
and
drawn
lots
to
see
who
among
them
is
the
lucky
so-and-so
who
must
not
only
ferret
out
the
identity
of
said
writer,
but
must
marry
her
in
order
to
control
her…uh,
plume…thereby
removing
the
threat
to
his
fellows
’
reputations
that
might
very
well
be
the
last
resort
for
some
women
to
find
justice
in
this
world.
Bravo,
Mr.Lott!
Did
you
think
of
this
scheme
by
yourself?
I
cannot
imagine
a
sweeter
justice
than
for
the
man
who
imagined
such
a
lottery
to
be
its
first
selected
victim.
I
say
“
first
”
because
after
you
fail
at
your
task,
sir,
undoubtedly
there
will
be
a
few
boisterous
fools
who
think
they
can
succeed
where
you
are
about
to
fail.
And you’ve boasted you can find me by Valentine’s Day? Bon chance!
If
you
’
d
like
to
read
more
about
North
and
his
search
for
the
Scarlet
Plumiere,
visit
my
website
www.llmuir.weebly.com
and
you
’
ll
find
Blood
for
Ink
on
the
Regency
Book
page.