Free Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) by L.L. Muir

clever at times, but a quick look around at her situation humbled her soon enough.
    If she were so clever, why had she not found a way back into society? Why was she not dancing at balls, invited to dine with clever people, taken to the Opera on the arm of a handsome gentleman? Why was she resigned to her father’s home with only his company, and only when her appearance did not upset the man...or his rat?
    No. She was not clever. She was lucky.
    She almost regretted finding the personal section so soon. One last letter from her might-have-been pursuer—that was all she would have. No matter what the man had written, she would not respond. Until another young woman needed her help, The Scarlet Plumiere would go silent. She had realized, for her own health, it would be far too risky to indulge any longer in her cat-and-mouse play with Northwick. If he found her, she was as good as dead. Truly.
    And then, what of her father? If Lord Gordon hunted her down and put her head on a pike, her father would not last for long, whether Gordon got to him or not. The staff would be able to keep the truth from him for a while. But sometimes, when they least expected it, her father would become completely lucid. What then? What if he read in the papers that his daughter had died? Perhaps he would only remember her as the girl who so resembled his wife. But what if he did remember? What if he remembered over and over again?
    The blow would be too much. Lord Gordon will have killed two birds with one stone.
    The Plumiere shook off her morbid thoughts and reached for that one last thrill. One final dessert on the tray that was her life.
    It was there. A note from Mr. Lott. But why had he made this, of all notes, so terribly brief?
    No matter. At least there was something.
     
The Capital Journal, February 6 th , Morning edition, Personal section
My Dear SP,
You tempt me to be just as you have painted me. Pray, bring a switch and meet me in Hyde Park Sunday afternoon, if you dare. –Mr. Lott
     
    The boy had kept his word! He had not revealed her to the earl! She was safe!
    She took just a moment to enjoy her relief before reading the message once again. And again. Then a slow smile curled her lips that caused her maid to take a step back.
    There were a few times in The Plumiere’s life when inspiration struck her like a lightning bolt from Heaven itself. Sometimes she had known, instantly, what to write in order to help a young woman. She experienced such inspiration as she read Mr. Lott’s short, but rousing note.
    Rousing, because she had no choice but to act, and inspiring, because she knew precisely what action she must take. It was plain as the type with which the note had been set.
    A dignified but silent withdrawal was not possible now. If she did not RSVP to his invitation, The Plumiere’s reputation would suffer, she reasoned. And the one weapon she possessed in her war against the dishonorable gentlemen of the ton would become but a dull-edged sword. If she were mocked, she had no power.
    And if anyone was going to be mocked in the papers this season, it was going to be Ramsay Birmingham, Earl of Northwick.
    “Do you need to answer straight away, my lady? John could see to it your missive is delivered to The Journal in time for the evening post.”
    She considered for only a moment, then reached for her breakfast once again. She would need her strength for this day.
    “I believe it might serve me better to let Mr. Lott stew, at least until morning.” Besides, she had other correspondence to write.

CHAPTER NINE
     
The Capital Journal, February 7 th , Saturday edition
Let it be known throughout The Grand City that a certain writer will present herself and her switch at Hyde Park on Sunday, noon. Come rain. Come shine. Come the Lord.
     
    Saturday evening, North could not contain his excitement. When a knock was heard at the front door he scurried down the stairs to answer it himself and flung the door wide. As usual, his