The Masque of the Black Tulip (14 page)

Resolving to give the horrid woman a chance, Henrietta turned to the marquise with the friendliest smile she could muster, and said in her warmest voice, "I have been admiring your gown all evening. The lace is exquisite!"

The marquise eyed her rather as she would an importunate ferret. "Thank you."

Henrietta waited for the requisite return compliment. It did not materialize. Henrietta experienced a certain grim satisfaction at the knowledge that the woman was just as dislikable in person as she was from a distance. Good. Now she didn't have to try to be nice to her.

Miles belatedly remembered his duty. "Madame de Montval, may I present Lady Henrietta Selwick?"

"Selwick?" The marquise pursed her lips becomingly in thought.

Was there any gesture the woman used that wasn't becoming? Henrietta would have willingly wagered the entire contents of Uppington House, including three Canalettos, assorted Van Dykes, and the family tiara, that the marquise had practiced her entire range of facial expressions in front of a mirror.

"Oh, of course!" The marquise unfurled her fan with a little trill of laughter. "The noble Purple Gentian! Are you related?"

"My brother," said Henrietta shortly.

"Those of us, my dear, who suffered in the late unpleasantness know only too well what a debt we owe him. But you would have been far too young too remember."

"In the nursery, crawling around on all fours and drooling," Henrietta agreed, so sweetly that Miles glanced at her sharply. She was tempted to make some comment about the marquise's advanced age, but nobly declined to sink to her level. Besides, she couldn't think of a clever way to phrase it.

In Henrietta's moment of hesitation, the marquise turned her attention back to Miles, placing a gloved hand caressingly on his wrist. "I so enjoyed our drive in the park today," shernurmured.

It was all Henrietta to do to keep her jaw from dropping in indignation. Their drive in the park! But… but… that was her drive. Of course, she'd been the one to turn the invitation down, but that reflection did nothing to alleviate the sting.

"I never knew the Serpentine could be so enthralling," the marquise continued, looking up at Miles from under long, dark lashes.

What could possibly be enthralling about the Serpentine? It was a body of water. With ducks.

"It all depends on what angle you look at it from," said Miles modestly.

Preferably, thought Henrietta, from within the water, while being violently pecked by maddened warrior ducks.

"Or," countered the marquise with a sultry smile, "on one's companion."

Miles made noises of humble denial.

The marquise begged to disagree.

Hen clamped down on the urge to wave a hand in front of their faces and trill, "Hello! I'm here!"

"I personally prefer to ride in the Row," she said loudly, just to have something to say.

"No, you don't," said Miles.

Henrietta glowered at him. "It is a recently formed opinion."

"You hate the Row. You said that only pretentious fops and overdressed—"

"Yes!" Henrietta intervened. "Thank you, Miles."

"In the young," interjected the marquise understandingly, somehow managing to look down on Henrietta even though they were roughly of a height, "opinions change so quickly. When you grow older, Lady Henrietta, you will become more settled in your tastes."

"Yes." Henrietta nodded just as understandingly. "I imagine that's what happens when one can't get about as much. Do you suffer much from stiffness of the joints? My mother has an excellent remedy for it if you do."

The remark had been petty and childish and not terribly clever, but it hit its mark. The marquise's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The expression did nothing to improve her looks. It brought out little crow's-feet on either side of her eyes. Henrietta hoped Miles was looking closely.

"So kind." Dropping her hand from its permanent perch on Miles's arm, the marquise snapped her fan shut with an audible click and regarded Henrietta narrowly. "Tell me, Lady Henrietta, do you share your brother's interests?"

Henrietta shook her head. "No, my mother won't let me go to gaming halls. It might interfere with my bedtime."

Miles nudged her. Hard.

Henrietta nudged back. Harder.

"What in the hell is wrong with you tonight?" muttered Miles.

The marquise didn't like being ignored. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dorrington, did you say something?"

"Nothing!" chorused Henrietta and Miles, just as the great clock in the hall began striking midnight.

One could barely hear the chimes over the din of the crowd— hundreds of voices talking and laughing, musicians playing, booted feet tapping across the parquet floor—but the faint echo of sound held Miles arrested.

Damn, if he wanted to burgle Vaughn's house, he should be about it now, before Vaughn grew bored with the insipid entertainment on offer in the Middlethorpes' ballroom and wended his way home. Most likely, he would stop off at other affairs before seeking his bed, but Miles would feel safer if he knew Geoff was keeping an eye on him here.

"Shall we continue our exploration of the park tomorrow, Mr. Dorrington? There are so many paths still undiscovered."

"Urn, certainly," said Miles, with no idea what he was agreeing to. Miles bowed to a point somewhere in between Hen and the marquise. "If you'll excuse me, ladies, I just remembered something I promised Pinchingdale-Snipe. Dreadfully sorry, but needs must, and all that."

"Quite all right," said the marquise smoothly. She extended a gloved hand at such an angle that Miles couldn't do anything but kiss it. "Until tomorrow, Mr. Dorrington. Good evening, Lady Henrietta. It has been a singular pleasure."

"Words cannot convey the extremity of my rapture," replied Henrietta politely. She waggled her fingers at themarquise's departing back.

"What was that all about?" Miles demanded, turning to face Henrietta.

Henrietta drew herself up on her tiptoes, stuck her bosom out, and draped one hand languidly over Miles's arm. "Oh, la, Mr. Dorrington, how utterly enthralling you are! I declare I shall swoon from the ecstasy of your presence."

"Is it so bizarre that someone should appreciate me?" Miles inquired.

Henrietta snorted. "If she appreciated you any more, you'd both be banned from the ballroom."

"Aren't you supposed to be dancing with someone?"

"He forgot."

"Ah," said Miles. "So that's what put you in such a foul mood."

"I'm not in a foul mood."

Miles cast her a highly sardonic look. "Shall we simply say that you are not your usual vision of charm and good cheer?"

Henrietta glowered.

Miles backed away with exaggerated alarm. "Or I can just not say anything at all and leave quietly."

Hen flapped her hands at him. "Oh, just go away. I'm going to go find a nice little hole to crawl into."

Miles wondered if he ought to stay, making offerings of lemonade and quadrilles, but the hands of the clock were steadily inching past midnight. Besides, Hen in a bad mood was a rare and frightening occurrence. So Miles simply grinned a comradely grin, kept an eye on her until he saw her fall in with Charlotte, who, from the disgruntled look on Hen's face, immediately inquired into her foul mood—Miles could faintly hear an irate "Why does everyone keep asking me that!" floating from the other side of the ballroom—and went off in search of Geoff, to implement part one of his cunning plan.

Geoff's dark head was easy to spot among the crowd; he stood out several inches over the dumpy dowagers and diminutive debutantes (the male population of the room had already begun a steady but inexorable progression to the card room and the refreshment table). But Geoff, Miles noted with a grimace, was otherwise occupied. He had persuaded that peerless jewel in Albion's crown, otherwise known as Mary Alsworthy, the biggest flirt this side of the English Channel, to partner him for a quadrille, and was gazing down at her dark curls with the devout reverence of a Crusader first sighting the Holy Land.

Miles stood on the side of the dance floor, and made subtle gestures at Geoff. Geoff's eyes remained fixed adoringly on the crown of Mary Alsworthy's head. Miles abandoned subtle. He waved his arms about and jerked his head in the direction of the door. Geoff caught his eye and grimaced. Miles couldn't tell if that was an "I'll be with you in a minute" grimace, or a "Stop waving your arms about because you're embarrassing the hell out of me" grimace. Either way, there wasn't much more Miles could do, short of bodily dragging Geoff off the dance floor, so he retreated to the side of the room with less than good grace, and leaned against the wall with arms crossed.

"You waved?" commented Geoff ironically, striding over to join him as the set on the dance floor dissolved and a new round of couples took their place for a lively country dance.

Miles decided to ignore the irony. Springing from his languid pose against the wall, he announced grandiloquently, "The time has come!"

"To embarrass me in front of Mary Alsworthy?"

"Oh, for the love of God!" The lady in question was already surrounded by five other swains. Miles forbore to point that out, not wanting to precipitate Geoff's departure. "There's a war on, remember? Can we concentrate on that for a moment?"

"Oh. Right." Geoff had already sighted Mary's entourage for himself and was looking that way with a worried line between his brows.

Witchcraft, Miles concluded. There had to be black arts involved somehow. This, after all, was Geoff, who had spent the past seven years capably taking care of the administrative end of the League of the Purple Gentian while Richard undertook the more daring bits. Nothing short of diabolical intervention could explain it.

England was long overdue for a good witch burning.

"You know," Miles said cunningly, "maybe if you avoid her for a few hours, it will pique her interest in you. Hen tells me women respond to that sort of thing."

Geoff shook his head. "Doesn't make any sense."

"Which is just why it might work," Miles said sagely.

"Hmm, there is that."

Miles decided he had pressed that ploy as far as he could without raising Geoff's suspicions. Of course, given his current state, he could probably tell Geoff that King George had just turned into a giant rutabaga, and Geoff would nod and agree.

"The person in question is over there, by the large statue of Zeus throwing thunderbolts," said Miles in a conversational tone, so that no one walking by would suspect anything clandestine. "I need about an hour. If you see him take his leave before then, think of some way to detain him. I'm counting on you, Geoff."

"An hour?"

"More would be better, but an hour will do."

Geoff nodded. "Good luck."

Miles grinned, executed a fancy little fencing move against the air, just for the hell of it, and turned to go. At the last moment, another thought struck Miles. He poked Geoff in the shoulder. "One last thing."

"What might that be?" asked Geoff warily.

It was a sad day when one's friends turned all suspicious. "Just keep an eye on him and Hen, will you? I didn't like the way he was hovering over her last night."

"Simple enough," agreed Geoff with relief. "I can always spirit her off onto the dance floor. Maybe if I could make Mary jealous…"

"Knew I could count on you, old chap!" Miles whacked Geoff on the shoulder before he could complete the thought, and strode cheerfully out of the ballroom with the comfortable sense of one who has done his duty.

Loping down the front steps, Miles drew in a deep, restorative breath of night air—and nearly gagged. Miles's face twisted in disgust. The smell was unmistakable, as were the noises that accompanied it. Someone, coattails sticking up in the air and head in the shrubbery, was casting up his accounts right into the Middlethorpes' carefully trimmed shrubbery.

As Miles passed, the retcher stood up, stumbled, landed with one hand under the bushes—Miles winced—and levered himself up again, so that the lantern light fell full on his pasty face. Miles stopped dead in his tracks. Here was someone he'd been meaning to speak to. It wasn't the best of timing, but Miles would rather get this particular interview over with as quickly as possible. The stench only provided extra incentive.

Taking hold of a mercifully clean part of the man's cravat, Miles helped haul him upright.

"Frobisher," he drawled. "I've been wanting to speak to you."

"Honored, Dorrington." Frobisher swayed on his feet as he attempted a bow. He grimaced at the ground as though he suspected it of trying to attack him. "Pleasure, dontcha know."

Miles couldn't echo the sentiment. Miles sidestepped to get out of the way of the blast of brandy fumes that emerged, like flames from a dragon, when Frobisher spoke. The man's cravat hung askew, his jacket gaped open, revealing streaks of Miles didn't want to know what on his waistcoat, and his bloodshot eyes narrowed with the sheer difficulty of trying to focus on Miles.

This inebriated cretin had had the gall to touch Henrietta. Miles's nostrils flared with distaste—a mistake, since it allowed in more of Frobisher's disgusting reek. When not in his cups, Frobisher was a perfectly presentable specimen, but any man of his age who would let himself get in such a state didn't deserve to be in the same room as Hen, much less drag her out onto darkened balconies. The man needed to be taught a little lesson in manners, starting with keeping his scurvy hands off Miles's best friend's sister.

Calm, Miles reminded himself. Just a little man-to-man chat. It didn't do to pound one's acquaintances silly—it made social life dashed awkward. He just needed to make sure the man knew that if he so much as looked at Henrietta again, he'd better bloody well start thinking about emigrating to the remoter bits of the Americas.

Miles crossed his arms over his chest. "I hear you had a little difference of opinion with Henrietta Selwick."

"Dam' disagreeable chit," slurred Frobisher. "Goin' about, cutting up stiff just because—" He catapulted back into the bushes.

Miles grasped the back of his waistcoat and hoisted him out again. If he held him dangling in the air just a moment longer than necessary, Frobisher was foxed enough not to notice. Nor did he suspect that Miles was considering replacing his hand with a boot and testing just how far one drunken degenerate could be kicked.