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

events that evening.
    In the back of North’s mind rose the ridiculous notion that the lady may not accept him, but he tamped down the thought like a hot coal, a nuisance that would hopefully die out if he left it alone.
    “I will believe it when I see it.” Stanley harrumphed out the window.
    North feared he had been thinking aloud, but when Ash spoke, he relaxed.
    “I would not bet against him, Stanley. If Beau Brummel says he will wear something daring, he will wear it.”
    Harcourt nodded. "Too bad he does not know a good spy or two to help us find the chit.”
    “So you have had no luck either, hm?” Ash shook his head faintly. "My sources can find nothing.”
    “You have to admit,” Stanley interjected. “She smacks of a female Robin Hood. And she must be quite clever about hiding herself. Otherwise, her supposed gentlemen victims would have found her out. Some, I am sure, are more than capable of murder. “
    The parting words of Stanley’s young spy threatened to surface, but North tamped them down as well. It was not a night for worries, but a night for making merry.
    At Lady Emerson’s they walked through the ballroom like a parade of black and red swans, dipping their heads now and again as they wandered past the ladies. Of course North kept his ear cocked for some magical note of laughter but was not terribly discouraged when he did not hear it. It was only their first party.
    They repeated the parade through the second floor of Lady Harper’s fete, pausing here and there for a word of greeting with the gentlemen. The ladies seemed leery of conversing with them rather than being amused by their costumes, dashing all hopes of sampling their laughter. In the ballroom, however, the laughter was free for the listening. Too free, truth be told. Even the orchestra was forced to stop playing in order to catch their breath. Of course all Four Kings laughed along—they had intended for the evening to be a lark, after all—but inwardly, North was cursing himself for not anticipating such a reaction. How in the world could he discern the heartfelt laughter of one woman amidst the guffaws of so many?
    Once the hilarity died down, he took heart again and went in search of a dance partner. He rather hoped The Plumiere might turn out to be Natalia Somersby. Such a nice long neck on that one. So elegant when she moved. But when he begged a dance from her, she took one look at his cravat and spooked like a horse. Her mother was quick to apologize, but it was clear the older woman suspected he and his friends were mad.
    At Irene Goodfellow’s party, poor Stanley spent an hour in the study with the girl’s father, assuring him that Lord Brummel himself was in on the joke, and all would be made right in the papers. The older man spent the rest of the hour lecturing on the cost of practical jokes, how truly impractical they were in light of the blunt he had paid for his daughter’s party and he would see no peaceful return for the investment.
    It was not until Brummel himself stood at the top of Irene’s stairs, proud as a scarlet peacock, that North stopped worrying about the Goodfellow’s tarnished opinion of Stanley. Having the man attend one’s event was the favor of a lifetime, even had the man shown up dressed as a cat with whiskers painted on his face.
    What Brummel did wear was shocking enough. The red of his cravat was repeated, perfectly, in the red of his breeches. His waistcoat was of red and puce stripes, and his puce coattails announced to all and sundry that only the most talented of tailors could have constructed the entire ensemble.
    North would be damned if his fashionable friend had not taken his little joke and created a furor that would reach Paris, be copied a hundred times, and touted the greatest stroke of Avant Guard since Adam picked up a fig leaf.
    North offered to speak to Goodfellow, to take responsibility for making Stanley dress the way he had, but the latter just laughed and shook his