Ripe for Pleasure

CHAPTER 26   



Viola accepted a glass of sherry from Lady Harrington and sipped it while the excited chatter of her friends washed over her. At her feet, Pen lay panting softly as Lady Grosvenor’s pug excitedly groomed the larger dog’s ear.

“No word from Lord Leonidas?” Lady Ligonier said softly enough that everyone else continued to listen to Mrs. Newton’s tale of her latest conquest.

Viola shook her head. It had been three days since her row with Lord Leonidas, and true to her command, he had not returned. “Not so much as a posy of flowers, though his footmen continue to arrive with clockwork regularity.”

Her friend nodded. “He’s giving you time to miss him, savvy devil that he is. And it’s working, too, from the wan look of you. Do you really want him back?”

Viola felt the tightness in her chest increase, and her eyes welled up. She blinked rapidly to clear them. “Much as I know I should be happy to be shot of him, I don’t feel happy about it.”

“Then do something about it,” Lady Harrington said from across the room. “You girls give me the bellyache sometime. In my day, we weren’t too proud or too miss-ish to go after what we wanted.”

Lady Ligonier clapped her hand over her mouth, cutting off a giggle like a child caught misbehaving by her governess.

“And take Penelope there with you. The two of you should be more than capable of formulating a plan of attack.”

The countess gave them a dismissive wave of her hand and turned her attention back to Lady Grosvenor. Lady Ligonier stood and dragged Viola up from the settee. “Let’s go before she decides she wants the details of our plan.”

Viola followed her friend out to the hall where they donned their hats and gloves. Pen shuffled out after them, the pug following until Lady Grosvenor called it back.

At the bottom of the steps, Lady Ligonier linked arms with her, and together they set off down the street with Pen and one of Leo’s footmen trailing behind them. A coach rolled past them, the team mincing in their traces.

The footman’s oath and Pen’s growl brought Viola’s attention sharply around. The former soldier was struggling with two men in ill-fitting coats. Pen leapt into the fray, her bay startling one of the men into loosening his grip on the footman.

Hands caught her from behind. Lady Ligonier screamed, clinging to Viola. The man tore them apart, sending Penelope crashing to the ground, and dragged Viola into the coach.

The stench of dirt and horse droppings and sweat rolled off the man pinning her to the seat. One hand gripped her wrist till the bones ground against one another; the other hand clamped over her mouth.

Shouts and oaths broke out as the coach rumbled into motion. Her friend’s cries for help faded away as the coach rumbled down the street.

“Cooper, Mrs. Whedon isn’t going anywhere. You can let go of her now.”

The hand left her mouth, and her hands were suddenly free. Viola wiped her lips with the back of her glove, her stomach roiling in protest.

The man with the silky voice wore a coat that fit him to perfection. A sliver of sunlight cut past the curtain and slid across him, flashing off his coat’s spangled buttons. And what a coat. Blue leopard-spotted velvet. It was hideous. His easy demeanor seemed entirely out of place with abducting women off the streets and spoke just as eloquently of malice as his coat did of dandyish aspersions.

In the dimness of the coach, Viola could make out that he was not young, certainly in his forties, if not a bit older. She knew with certainty that she’d never seen him before. She pushed back into the squabs, not wanting to touch him or his servant.

Panic seized her lungs and squeezed her heart. There was no air in the coach, just the stench of the stables and the heavy scent of the gentleman’s cologne. It was impossible to draw a full breath without choking.

The stranger smiled, and her skin broke out in gooseflesh. “I wouldn’t advise it. If you scream, Cooper here has my permission to silence you however he sees fit. That’s right, my dear, sit quietly and behave yourself. You’ll live longer.”


A commotion in the hall caught Leo’s attention. The clear sound of the butler’s raised voice preceded the door being thrown open. His sister looked up from the paper and turned her head toward the door.

Lady Ligonier, hat missing, hair wild, with her gown muddied and torn, shoved past the glowering butler. The older man shut the door behind him with a disapproving snap. Leo’s pulse jumped. Something was terribly wrong. “My lord, your cousin has—” She glanced at Beau, her words ending abruptly.

“I rather think Lady Boudicea will survive hearing Mrs. Whedon’s name spoken in our mother’s breakfast parlor.”

Lady Ligonier glared at him. “Very well. Your damn cousin has taken Mrs. Whedon, my lord. And I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”

“Did you actually see him?” Beau asked. The paper had fallen from her hands, one corner drooping into her coffee, the wet stain rapidly wicking across the page.

“His face? No, my lady.” Lady Ligonier smoothed her hair back and squared her shoulders. “But the man inside the coach was wearing a blue leopard-spotted coat. It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

His sister drew a sharp breath. Charles was inordinately proud of that coat. He’d bought it in Paris just before their grandfather died. Just like him to spurn something more nondescript.

“Did you see where they took her?”

Lady Ligonier shook her head. “No, but your footman and Viola’s dog gave chase. He said to tell you to wait for him at The Red Lion.”

“Thank you, my lady. Beau, can see that a hack is fetched to carry Lady Ligonier home?”

Leo dropped a quick kiss on his sister’s brow and raced upstairs to don his coat and boots. He’d have to send footmen racing all over town if he had any hope of rounding up the League.

Leo reached The Red Lion to find Sandison and Thane already awaiting them. Devere and de Moulines arrived on his heels. Other League members, their morning coffee disrupted, pricked up their ears at the obvious signs of action.

His father’s footman erupted through the door, his wig clutched in his hand. He was breathing hard, sweat glistening off his dark skin, soaking his wilted collar. One stocking was down around his ankle, and his lip was swollen and bloody.

“Do you know where he’s taken Mrs. Whedon, Ezekiel?”

The footman nodded. “Followed them all the way past Denmark Street, my lord. Me and the dog both. Left her there tearing into the front door like a demon possessed.”

“How many men did Charles have?”

“I saw only the one, but there could have been more inside.”

“Even if he does, we’ll have surprise on our side.”

“Or so you hope,” Devere said, not looking up from the pistol he was busy loading.