The Masque of the Black Tulip (19 page)

Usually, Henrietta was quite pleased with her own appearance. She knew she'd never set off a flotilla of ships, but she liked the oval face reflected in the mirror. She liked her thick brown hair with its reddish glints; she liked her high cheekbones and her small nose; and she was especially fond of the almond-shaped eyes that tilted at the corners in a way that Charlotte had fondly assured her lent her an exotic air.

Next to the marquise, Henrietta felt about as exotic as sticky toffee pudding.

As she watched, the marquise tucked her purchase into her reticule and swayed gracefully out of the shop.

"Even her walk is a poem," groaned Henrietta.

"I'm not sure Miles is quite as susceptible as you think," said Charlotte, running a finger along the spine of one of the novels on the table next to her. "He didn't seem eager to linger at her side."

"He didn't have to," Henrietta said reluctantly, refusing to allow herself the false comfort of Charlotte's words. "They're driving together today. The marquise was the one to suggest it," she added, before Charlotte could ask. "But Miles could have refused."

"There's only one way to find out, isn't there?" Penelope leaned forward, reticule swinging, amber eyes gleaming.

"What do you mean?" Henrietta asked warily.

"We could follow them. We'll lie in wait in Hyde Park and wait for them to drive by. If Miles is fending off her advances"—Penejbpe's tone suggested she thought that highly unlikely—"then you'll know he's worthy of your attention. If not…" Penelope shrugged.

"How perfectly romantic," breathed Charlotte. "Like the wife of the Green Knight testing Sir Gawain."

"It's a dreadful idea!" protested Henrietta. "And didn't Sir Gawain fail the test?"

Charlotte's cheeks turned a guilty pink.

"Ha!" Penelope pointed a finger at Hen. "You don't want to go along with it because you're afraid you'll see something you don't want to see."

"Nooooo." Henrietta plunked her hands on her hips. "I don't want to go along with it because it's a horrible idea. It's entirely impractical. First, we have no idea which route Miles is taking. Second, how do we see him without his seeing us? Third… uh…" Blast, she didn't have a third. She knew there was one—and most likely a fourth, fifth and sixth as well, but none was popping to mind, other than a generalized sense of outraged misgiving, that she doubted Penelope would take as an acceptable argument.

"Which way does Miles usually drive?" asked Penelope.

"Along the Serpentine," muttered Henrietta.

"And does he ever deviate from this route? In all the years you have been driving with him?"

"He might!"

"We'll disguise ourselves," said Penelope enthusiastically. "We can hide behind a hedge—or even better, up a tree! And when he comes along we'll just look down and—"

"Never," said Henrietta decisively. "Absolutely out of the question. I would never stoop that low."

"Is it really low if you're up a tree?" asked Charlotte.

"I cannot believe I'm doing this," muttered Henrietta three hours later.

She stooped behind a bush in Hyde Park with Penelope crouching beside her on one side, and Charlotte on the far side of Penelope. They were dressed all in green—to blend into the scenery, Penelope had explained with relish—and resembled nothing so much as a troupe of lost leprechauns, or a bunch of frogs who had misplaced their lily pad.

Henrietta adjusted the green bandeau in her hair. "I don't know how I let you talk me into this."

"Did you have a better idea? Let's think about that. No, you didn't." Hmm. There was that. Henrietta subsided back beneath the bush. After a moment, she popped up again. "How do we even know they'll come this way?"

"If they don't, we'll just go home again."

"Why don't we just go home now?" Henrietta started to struggle to her feet.

Penelope grabbed her by the sleeve and yanked her back down. "Sit!" Henrietta sat down hard in a patch of wet grass. "I cannot believe I'm doing this."

A sudden squeal came from Charlotte, green and silent on the other side of Penelope. "Sh! I see them! I see them!"

Henrietta sprang up again, just far enough that she could see over the edge of the shoulder-high hedge. "Where?"

"There!" Charlotte pointed down the beaten dirt track that wound along the Serpentine. There, unmistakably, was Miles's pale blue high-perch phaeton, drawn by his two matched bays. The woman seated next to Miles was equally unmistakable; she wore a driving dress of deep gray, banded in purple, which despite its high neck nonetheless managed to draw attention to all the attributes one might want noticed if one had seduction on the agenda. Instead of trying to impersonate a hedge.

Miles, Henrietta noticed a bit smugly, was wearing his blandest man-about-town face, which, translated, meant he wasn't listening to a word the marquise was saying. Every now and again, he would remember he was supposed to be engaged in a conversation, paste a momentary smile on his face, nod slowly, and murmur something in that low grumble that passed for conversation among men. Henrietta knew that look well. Miles didn't use it on her anymore, because he didn't like being poked in the ribs.

It did not, however, seem to be deterring the marquise one whit. Henrietta's warm glow of satisfaction faded. Despite the fact that they were in public, the marquise was making herself shamefully free of Miles's person. She had turned on the seat so that her body yWas perpendicular to Miles, her face, under the slightest wisp of a bonnet, near enough to kiss. She was smiling into Miles's abstracted face, while one hand trailed across his chest. Good heavens, was that woman reaching under Miles's jacket? Henrietta stared in fascinated disgust.

Miles twitched distractedly.

Henrietta ought, at that point, to have ducked behind the hedge. But she was too busy staring at Miles's torso, trying to figure out what on earth the marquise was doing with her hand, and whether there was any way to dislodge it—a subtly thrown rock, perhaps?—without making her presence known, and spooking the horses in the process. Instead of seeking cover, she stared straight at Miles, her gaze moving up from his blue-and-yellow-striped waistcoat to his face, to see how he was reacting to this bold assault upon his person.

Her eyes lifted in the direction of his—and caught.

Henrietta froze, horror beginning to wash over her from the tips of her toes, past the ant that was crawling up along her leg, all the way up to her wide, startled eyes, which were so inextricably locked with a very familiar pair of brown eyes that were moving steadily closer as the horses trotted along. Oh no. He couldn't be looking her way. He couldn't.

Henrietta could have smiled and waved. She could have pretended she was just on a walk. She could have strolled calmly the other way as though she hadn't recognized him. She could have done any number of perfectly plausible things that would have sufficed to allay the suspicion of a person of the male persuasion.

Henrietta took one panicked look at Miles, and flung herself facedown behind the bush.

* * *

Phaeton (n.): 1) Apollo's son, chiefly famed for destroying his father's chariot; 2) a silly sort of vehicle favored by sporting enthusiasts; 3) spectacular failure in one's mission. See also under Crash and Burn.

—from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation

"Quite." Miles cast a winning smile in the general direction of the woman sitting next to him. "Absolutely."

To say that Miles was slightly preoccupied would have been akin to saying that the Prince Regent had a slight penchant for spending money. Despite the lavish charms of the woman next to him, his mind was on other things entirely. An opera singer, to be precise.

True to his resolution, Miles had made his way to the opera house in Haymarket that afternoon, to have a little chat with the newly arrived Madame Fiorila. A little bit of preliminary intelligence gathering had netted Miles the information that her first performance had taken place three nights before, to a packed house. The previous night, she had been engaged for a private party—not, Miles's informant had hastened to add, that kind of private party. It had been an evening of song arranged by an elderly noblewoman with musical pretensions.

Decking himself out in his most dandified attire, Miles had set out for the opera house in the guise of eager swain, prepared to woo out of Madame Fiorila any information she might have about Lord Vaughn, Paris, and the mysterious address in the rue Nigoise. In one hand he carried an elaborate bunch of flowers, in the other, a playbill from Tuesday night's performance (acquired from the ever-obliging Turnip Fitzhugh), to add verisimilitude to his story that he had seen her sing and been overcome by her beauty and charm. Dash it all, he hoped she was beautiful; otherwise his story might be somewhat lacking. If she was a matronly woman with a bosom like a feather bolster, his smitten state might be somewhat harder to explain.

It never came to that point. Madame Fiorila, the porter informed him, was receiving no callers. She was indisposed. A sixpence failed to change the porter's message. A half-crown didn't do any better, but did elicit the information that Madame Fiorila had abruptly cancelled her performance for that night and all of her engagements for the next week. She was, reiterated the porter, indisposed. Miles had left the flowers, along with his card, urging the porter to inform him if there were any change in the lady's condition.

Another lead lost. Of course, there were still her lodgings to locate and inspect, and numerous other avenues he could explore, but it was a dashed nuisance not being able to see her in person. At least then he might have a better idea of whether Vaughn's interest was professional or amorous.

A stop at the Alien Office to discover the identity of Vaughn's hooded companion had proved no more fruitful. It had not been, Miles reflected, the best of days. Madame Fiorila had proved elusive, the Alien Office barren, and he still had no inkling at all as to the identity of last night's assailant.

Miles's first assumption, based largely on the sight of a silver-headed cane plowing towards his head, had been that his attacker was Vaughn. But Geoff, confronted at Pinchingdale House at an ungodly hour of the morning (before noon, at any rate), had decisively denied that possibility. Several times. With increasing emphasis. No, he hadn't let Vaughn out of his sight. No, he was really quite sure. No, Vaughn couldn't have left the room without his knowing. Would Miles like him to find a Bible somewhere to swear on?

Miles had politely turned down the offer of a Bible. Really, Geoff was dashed touchy these days.

Geoff had also mentioned, as proof of his complete concentration on the movements of Vaughn, that Vaughn had indeed approached Henrietta, solicited her hand for a dance, and reiterated his hopes that she would grace his humble abode that evening.

Too many bloody men were showing interest in Henrietta. First Frobisher, now Vaughn. If Miles had known that keeping her out of the arms of her amorous suitors was going to be a full-time job, he would have told Richard to keep an eye on her himself. All that was needed was for Prinny to take an interest in Hen, and then they'd really be in for it.

Could she just try to be a little less attractive?

For a start, she could pull her hair back more sternly. Those little wisps at the nape of her neck practically invited caresses. Then there were her gowns. The gowns definitely had to go. Miles jerked harder than he'd intended on the reins. Not like that. The gowns definitely had to stay on. There would be no mental removing of clothing. None at all. He'd just pretend that little thought sequence hadn't happened. What he meant was the gowns needed to be replaced, preferably with something of a thick, heavy material that wouldn't cling to her legs when she walked. And whatever it was, it had better bloody well button straight up to the neck. Dammit all, what was Lady Uppington thinking, letting Hen go around half-exposed like that?

Miles tugged at his cravat.

"Unseasonably warm day for May, isn't it?" he said to the marquise.

At least, that's what he opened his mouth to say to the marquise. Miles's mouth remained open, but no sound came out. As he'd turned to look at his companion, his eye caught a glimpse of a very familiar forehead.

Good God, was that… Henrietta? Miles blinked a few times, wondering if there was any truth to the old wives' tale that if you thought about a person hard enough they'd appear. She certainly looked pretty solid for a figment of his imagination. And green. Very green.

As Miles tried to puzzle that one out, Henrietta's eyes met his. Her hazel eyes widened, and an expression of indescribable horror flashed across her face. Before he could lift his hand in greeting, Henrietta's forehead disappeared. Just like that. One minute it was there, the next minute it wasn't.

Pulling back on the reins, Miles drew his team to an expert stop.

“Is something wrong?” enquired the marquise, with just a bit of an edge to her voice.

Miles didn’t answer right away. He was too busy leaning as far as he could over the edge of the phaeton without tipping the whole contraption over. He had seen Henrietta, hadn’t he? At least, a small piece of Henrietta, poking over the edge of that bush. Miles peered more closely. Now, the bush just looked like… a bush. Green. Bushy. In fact, it bore a remarkable resemblance to that prickly thing he’d tumbled into last night. It didn’t in the least bit resemble Henrietta.

Miles frowned. Had he descended to imagining things? True, he wasn’t his usual well-rested and collected self—Miles ignored the little voice in his head that snorted at the latter half of that statement; it was bad enough to conjure Hen up behind bushes without her voice joining in, too—but, seeing people who weren’t there? Maybe he should cut back on the claret.

Just as Miles was about to consign himself to a dark little hole in Bedlam, he saw it. A shape that could not possibly belong to shrubbery. In fact, it looked remarkably like a well-rounded derriere.

The possessor of the attribute in question hunched facedown behind the hedge, clinging desperately to the timeless delusion that if she couldn’t see anyone, no one could see her.