The Bride Wore Scarlet Read Online Free PDF Page A

had become a rich, bored aristocrat?
    Dear God. That was too distasteful to contemplate.
    But whatever it was that nagged at him, Sutherland was offering a way to escape it for a time. This assignment in Brussels was, perhaps, a means of doing good for the Fraternitas —for society—while escaping the shackling role of Lord Bessett for a time. A chance to be, fleetingly, just plain old Geoff Archard again.
    Ruthveyn had extracted his gold watch. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I must leave you,” he said. “Lady Anisha is expecting me home for dinner.”
    â€œAnd we mustn’t keep your sister waiting.” Bessett set his hands flat to the table with an air of finality. “Very well, DuPont, we have your direction. Should we have any questions, we’ll send a man to Paris using the same pass phrase as tonight.”
    â€œThen I beg you will waste no time in doing it,” DuPont advised. “The Jolie Marie will lie at anchor in Ramsgate harbor for a sennight. I encourage you to make swift use of her.”
    â€œIndeed, indeed!” Sutherland managed a benevolent smile. “Well, gentlemen, I fear I must take my leave. We’ll be initiating a new acolyte soon, Monsieur DuPont. If you should like to remain a couple of days, I can give you the loan of a robe.”
    But the Frenchman shook his head, and rose to go. “ Merci , but I go at once to St. Katherine’s to meet a friend, and thence to Le Havre.” Then he turned, and offered his huge paw to Bessett once again. “ Bon voyage , Lord Bessett,” he added, “ et bonne chance. ”
    â€œThank you,” said Geoff quietly. Then, on impulse, he set a hand between the man’s broad shoulder blades. “Come, DuPont. The streets hereabouts are not the safest. I’ll walk you up to the docks.”
    But the Frenchman merely flashed another of his grim, misshapen smiles. “ Très bien, mon frère ,” he said evenly, “if you think my looks are not enough to put your English footpads off?”
    M aria Vittorio rumbled into the Docklands well after dark in a monstrous old town coach so heavy half a battalion could have ridden atop it. Alas, she did not have half a battalion for her journey into London’s netherworld; merely a footman and a coachman, both nearly as ancient as she. But like old shoes, they had grown worn and comfortable together through the years, and Signora Vittorio was known to be deeply suspicious of change.
    Near the foot of Nightingale Lane, the coach rocked to a halt, harnesses jingling. A few shouts were exchanged in the street, then Putnam, the footman, clambered slowly down and threw open the signora ’s door.
    â€œThey say the Sarah Jane ’s offloading on the Burr Street side, ma’am,” he said in his creaky voice. “We’ve got almost down to the King George, but the turn is choked with drays and whatnot.”
    Signora Vittorio hefted herself wearily off the banquette. “Circle back to the top of the lane, then, and wait. I’ll send a porter through with the baggage.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” The footman tugged his forelock. “If you’re sure? ’Tis a chilly evening, and a fog coming in.”
    â€œ Sì, sì , go,” she said, waving a gloved hand. “My knees are not as arthritic as yours.”
    Signora Vittorio climbed out on short, stout legs, Putnam supporting her at the elbow. As her carriage clattered away, the old woman stood to one side of the pavement, just a few yards from the King George, taking in all the bustle and shouting that spilled from the well-lit yard beyond.
    As she set off past the pub’s entrance, however, a small, wiry man in a tatty green coat burst from the door, almost bowling her over in the gloom. His gait hitching but an instant, he begged her pardon mockingly, his breath sour and reeking of gin.
    Signora Vittorio lifted her nose a notch higher,