“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 silence 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 in 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 saying. “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 at 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 Wessex, 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, floundering around a few feet from shore were a handful of children, shrieking and thrashing in the water. 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 where the children, surrounded by a variety of toy boats, were obviously floundering.
“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.