The Masque of the Black Tulip (38 page)

"Capital idea!" enthused Turnip. He turned courteously towards Henrietta's bonnet. "What brings you here, Lady Hen?"

"We were just—" began Miles.

"—in Sussex. With Richard," Henrietta broke in, the tone of her voice forbidding further elaboration.

Miles looked sharply down at Henrietta, but received a poke in the eye from an impudent feather for his pains. He could learn to hate that bonnet.

"What are you doing here?" he asked Turnip with no good grace, as their small group progressed through the door of the inn. Behind them, a steady stream of vehicles, pausing on the journey from Brighton to London, continued to crowd into the yard of the coaching inn, in search of fresh horses and a respite from the rigors of the road.

Turnip beamed and waved his carnation-hemmed handkerchief. "Been in Brighton. With Prinny, you know. Devil of a crush at the Pavilion this weekend."

"When isn't there?" asked Miles, gesturing expansively at the innkeeper, in the hopes that the sooner Turnip was fed, the sooner Turnip would leave. Behind them, a queue of cranky travelers was beginning to form, headed by the slender man who had nearly run Miles down in the yard. Judging from the width of his lapels and height of his shirt collar, he was clearly another one of Prinny's hangers-on, fresh from Brighton. That consideration added extra force to Miles's voice as he grumbled, "I don't know why you subject yourself to it."

"You're joking, right, Dorrington? Can't say I care much for the sea, but the prince's entertainments are all up to the crack. Even had an opera singer perform this weekend! Accompanied by some Italian chap, name that sounded like a noodle. Deuced fine—er." Turnip glanced uneasily at Henrietta and broke off. "Er, singer," he finished with relief. "Deuced fine singer."

Even Turnip looked relieved at the intrusion of the innkeeper.

Wiping his hands on the large white cloth tied about his waist, that worthy waxed exceedingly apologetic, explaining that his private parlor was already spoken for; as they could see, his inn was full to overflowing due to the prince's entertainments that weekend in Brighton; if the lady and gentlemen did not object, there were still places in the coffee room… ?

No one objected: Miles, because he didn't care where they sat, so long as they eventually left; Turnip, because he was still talking; and Henrietta, because she wasn't saying anything at all. Miles was very tempted to tap on the top of that confounded bonnet to inquire if anyone was home, but decided that in her present frame of mind, Henrietta; was highly unlikely to respond favorably.

The coffee room was swarming with other travelers tucking into pork pie, brace of duck, and large platters of mutton and potatoes, but Turnip, dint of some cheerful rearranging, secured them a small table in the corner of the room, and dusted off a seat for Henrietta with his handkerchief, all the while expounding volubly on the beauties of Brighton—female and architectural—the dashed fine singer who had entertained them on Friday night, and the wonders of the prince's waistcoats.

"—with real peacock feathers! Seat, Lady Henrietta?" Turnip flourished the recently dusted chair in the direction of Henrietta.

"Pity the peacock," muttered Miles in the direction of Henrietta, but she didn't so much as chuckle.

Henrietta shook her bonnet in the direction of the proffered chair. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I need to repair the ravages of travel."

At least, thought Miles, she hadn't lost her vocabulary along with her voice. He just wished she'd use it to speak to him.

On a sudden impulse, Miles reached out a hand and grabbed her gloved wrist. Turnip was mercifully distracted, waving his arms in an attempt to attract the attention of a serving maid and acquire a flagon of porter.

"Hen—" he began.

"Yes?" Henrietta's eyes flew to his, suddenly alert.

Miles sat there, mouth half-open, unable to think of a single thing to say. "You aren't planning to climb out a window, are you?" wasn't really an option. "I hate that bonnet" would be honest, but largely unhelpful. And "Why aren't you speaking to me?" wasn't really something that could either be asked in the presence of Turnip, or that could be furnished with a satisfying answer.

"Would you like me to order some lemonade for you?" he finished lamely.

Henrietta's bonnet brim dropped again. "No, thank you," she said politely. Damn.

Miles subsided into his seat, cursing the vagaries of human communication, Henrietta's milliner, and Turnip and all his descendants unto the end of time.

As Turnip bantered with the serving maid, Miles watched Henrietta edge her way around the man who had driven in behind them, a pink of the ton in tan pantaloons, a leviathan of a cravat, and collar points higher than the Tower of Babel. The dandy paused in the door to stare after Henrietta, the stiffened tails of his coat brushing against the wall. Miles scowled openly at the fellow in the doorway. What business did he have staring at Henrietta? She was taken, quite, quite taken, and if that foppish fellow didn't stop ogling her soon (Miles had a fairly firm notion of what "soon" entailed), Miles would have to make sure he knew it. For a moment, the fop looked like he might actually be about to follow Henrietta—Miles's hand went instinctively to where his sword would have been, were he wearing it—but thought better of it, a decision that Miles silently applauded, and instead strolled over to the fire.

Relaxing his vigil, Miles turned back to Turnip, who was engaged in a merry monologue about the wonders of the Prince of Wales's collection of chinoiserie, in which peacocks seemed to figure significantly. Miles wondered if this meant that Turnip was finally going to stop swathing himself in Pink Carnation paraphernalia, and decided that the image of Turnip as a giant peacock was too alarming a concept to contemplate.

"Copied down the name of Prinny's new tailor for you," Turnip said expansively, extracting a small piece of paper from his tightly fitted waistcoat. He beamed fondly at the little scrap. "You wouldn't believe what that man can do with a waistcoat."

Unfortunately, Miles could. Accepting the scrap of paper, he stuffed it absently away in a waistcoat pocket along with other crumpled bits of this and that, some small change, and a bit of string that was there in case it might ever come in useful.

"There was one patterned with emerald green peacocks with real sapphires set into the tails," rhapsodized Turnip, a reminiscent gleam in his eye. "And another—"

"Did you see Geoff there?" asked Miles, in the hopes of getting Turnip off the topic of peacocks and his wardrobe. Over Turnip's shoulder, the dandy in the complicated cravat edged closer to their table, clearly hoping that if he hovered long enough, they would yield their seats. Miles favored him with his best "clear off" glare, before returning his attention to Turnip.

Turnip shook his head. "Not really Pinchingdale's metier, you know. Didn't see the Alsworthy there, either. Thought of stopping by Selwick Hall," added Turnip amiably, reaching for his glass of porter, "but a bit out of the way, you know."

"Not really," countered Miles, thanking whatever conjunction of the planets had kept Turnip from pursuing that course. A rampaging French spy running about the premises garbed as a Phantom Monk was bad enough; to have added Turnip to the mix would have been a sure disaster. Turnip would probably have invited the spy in, complimented him on the cut of his habit, asked him how he thought it would look in pink, and offered him a glass of claret.

"It's only an hour from—" Miles broke off abruptly.

"Not by coach, old chap." Mulling over the matter, Turnip didn't seem to notice that Miles's eyes were bulging and his mouth gaping like an unfortunate highwayman at the end of the hangman's noose. "Took me well near two hours last time from Brighton to Selwick's place."

Miles surged across the table and grabbed his former classmate by the sleeve. "Was Lord Vaughn there?"

"At Selwick's? Can't say that he was. 'Course, that was over a year ago, and—"

"At Brighton," interpolated Miles rather more forcefully than he had intended. "Not last year. This weekend."

Damn, he was really no good at the whole subtle questioning game. More than once, Miles had seen Richard at work on a suspect, spinning information out of a suspect as smoothly as a silkworm his thread, spooling it out, question by question, until he knew everything there was to know.

Fortunately, Turnip, not being the brightest vegetable in the garden, didn't seem to notice his gaffe.

"Vaughn?" Turnip tilted his head in contemplation. "Nice chap. Can't say much for his taste in waistcoats—silver is dashed dull, don't you think?—but he does have a nice way with his cravat. What does he call that style of his again? The Serpent in the Garden? A bit like an Oriental, but there's something about that last twist—"

To the devil with subtlety. Miles had always ascribed more to the "thump them on the head" school himself.

"Brighton," Miles repeated. "Lord Vaughn. Was he there?"

Turnip pondered. "Y'know, believe I did see him at the Pavilion. Intimate of the prince, they say—used to go wenching together back in the eighties."

Having no desire to hear any more about the intimacies of the prince's bedchamber, Miles cut Turnip off. "Do you recall which night it was? That you saw Vaughn, I mean?" Miles hastily specified.

Turnip shrugged. "Might have been Friday… or Saturday. Pavilion looks much the same from one night to another, you know! I say, why all this interest in Vaughn? Not a friend of yours, is he?"

"Vaughn has some horseflesh I've a mind to acquire," prevaricated Miles, quite proud of himself for having come up with a story Turnip would find completely credible. "I was hoping to look him up in London, but if he's away…"

"His grays?" Turnip asked enthusiastically. "They're bang-up to the mark. Prime goers! Didn't know Vaughn was looking to sell. May give you a bit of a run for them myself, old chap:"

"You do that," said Miles absently.

Now that he knew Vaughn had been in Brighton… Turnip's protests to the contrary, for a man with a swift team of horses and a light carriage, it was a mere hour's run from the Marine Parade to Selwick Hall. In fact, Richard had frequently bemoaned his proximity to the Regent's pleasure palace, citing the congestion of the roads and unexpected visits from the likes of Turnip as causes of complaint. Miles winced at the thought of his best friend—his former best friend—and forcibly bent his mind back to Vaughn. If that wasn't proof of Vaughn's guilt, Miles wasn't sure what would be—aside from a large placard proclaiming the black tulip slept here. There would be no use to turning around and thundering off to Brighton; by now, Vaughn must be well on his way back to London.

In which case, Miles would be waiting for him. He just had to collect Hen, and they could be off. Where was Hen?

Miles cut Turnip off in the midst of a tangled exposition about a pair of chestnuts he had seen at Tattersal's last month. "I wonder what can be keeping Hen?"

Turnip frowned into his glass of porter, shifting his shoulders beneath the rich brocade of his coat and fidgeting on the hard wood of his seat.

"I say, Dorrington," began Turnip uneasily. "Didn't want to say anything before, with Lady Hen present, but it ain't at all the thing for you to be here alone with Lady Henrietta. Reputation and all that. Know you're like a brother to her, but—"

"I'm not her brother," snapped Miles, watching the coffee room door. How long could it possibly take for one woman to go to the necessary and back? The young fop in the immense cravat was still standing by the fire, so he didn't have to worry about her being abducted by force, but… Hen wouldn't have bolted out a window. Would she?

"Just what I was saying," agreed Turnip, looking relieved that Miles had grasped the crux of the problem so readily. "Don't mean to be Mrs. Grundy, you know, but…"

"Trust me," said Miles, frowning at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, "it is a role for which you are singularly unsuited."

"Oh, you mean not being female?" Turnip considered. "Dare say I would look deuced odd in skirts, though some of those sprigged muslin rig outs ain't half-bad. Little flowers, you know. But what I meant to say"—Turnip abandoned the fascinating subject of haberdashery to drag himself doggedly back to the topic at hand—"is, that is to say…"

Miles dragged his attention away from the door and fixed Turnip with a quelling look. "There is nothing havey-cavey going on between me and Henrietta." Miles twisted in his seat to look anxiously at the coffee room door. "But where is she?"

* * *

Havey-Cavey (adj.): highly suspect, clandestine, illicit; behavior generally indicative of some nefarious purpose. To be strictly monitored by the conscientious agent.

—from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation

Tucking her shawl more securely around her shoulders, Henrietta started up the narrow flight of stairs to which she had been directed by a busy maidservant. With only the meager illumination to be had from a window on the landing above, the stairwell was dim, and the well-worn treads dipped in the middle. Henrietta picked her way gingerly up the stairs, but her mind was back downstairs in the coffee room, on a pair of anxious brown eyes.

What had Miles really been about to say? No one, not even Miles, could contrive to look that earnest over a beverage. Henrietta mulled through possible endings to that plaintive "Hen—" She didn't like any of them.

Henrietta sighed and shook her head at herself. She was driving herself to distraction with these futile speculations. Playing a game of "What can Miles be thinking?" was not only fruitless, it was absolutely…

"… maddening!" someone exclaimed.

Henrietta paused, one foot on the landing, one on the penultimate step. It wasn't just that the word exactly encapsulated her own sentiments. She knew that voice. The last time she had heard it, it had been employed in a slumberous murmur of seduction rather than an expression of agitation, but the tones were as unmistakable as they were misplaced.

"You must be patient," counseled another voice, a woman's voice with a light foreign accent. Even the wooden barrier of the door couldn't quite detract from the fluid charm of it; although she spoke softly, every tone was as finely hued as a delicately painted piece of porcelain. "You do no good to yourself by this, Sebastian."