The Masque of the Black Tulip (43 page)

Henrietta must be warned. At once.

Jane smiled sweetly at Captain Desmoreau, who showed a stubborn refusal to leave her side, and told him she was really quite perishing of thirst. Would he be so kind… ?

He would. Desmoreau set off into the throng. Rising, Jane wended—, her way past a cluster of dowagers merrily ripping apart reputations like so much disorderly tatting, past the gloomy Louis Bonaparte, complaining about his myriad phantom illnesses, past the admiring circle who thronged Bonaparte's wife, Josephine, her step steady, her expression serene, a Galatea with no other purpose but to adorn a pedestal at the Bonapartes' court.

The door was in sight. Four more paces, and she could escape into the hallways, and thence to her cousin's house, to pack for a hasty journal for England. This was not a task Jane cared to entrust to another. Couriers had an unfortunate habit of disappearing en route. Three paces. Jane's mind was already leaping ahead. She would ride dressed in male clothes; it would be faster than taking the coach and cause less comment. She would have Miss Gwen put it about that she had taken sick and was keeping to her bed. Something nasty, something contagious, something that would ward off well-wishers. Two paces. She would cross at Honfleur rather than Calais; the port was less closely watched, and she had a fisherman in her pay, on the condition that his boat be at her disposal whenever she should need it. One pace left…

"My goddess!" A white-shirted figure lolled dramatically in her path, waistcoat open and sleeves billowing. Augustus Whittlesby, English expatriate and author of the most execrable effusions of verse ever to assault the ear, flung himself at Jane's feet in an aspect of adoration. "My muse! My peerless patroness of sesquipedality!"

"Good evening, sir," Jane replied for the benefit of any listeners, adding softly, "Not now, Mr. Whittlesby!"

He pressed a languid hand to his forehead, ruffles billowing about his face. "I swoon, I perish, I expire at your feet, if you will not do your humble servant the inestimable honor of giving ear to my latest ode in praise of your prodigious pulchritude." For her ear alone, he muttered, mouth hidden from the company beneath the flowing muslin of his sleeve, "You really must hear this, Miss Wooliston."

Jane's face tightened, but she knew better than to object when her fellow agent spoke in such a tone. Having perfected his role years ago, Whittlesby almost never broke character, and would certainly not do so in the heart of the enemy's lair, Bonaparte's palace, for any but the most pressing reasons. Placing a hand on Whittlesby's arm, she said sternly, "One moment only, Mr. Whittlesby. My cousin grows alarmed if I stay out too late."

Whittlesby flourished a bow that ended somewhere in the vicinity of Jane's silk slippers. Taking her arm and leading her through the door, into a small anteroom, he said loudly, for the benefit of those behind them, "I assure you, my ardent angel, you shall not regret this small mercy." In a harsh whisper, he added, "Orders. From England."

"Mr. Whittlesby, you do me too much honor with these effusions. What are they?"

"Honor itself pales before such divinity," declaimed Whittlesby. He bowed over Jane's hand. Jane leaned forward slightly. "Trouble," he muttered. "In Ireland. Wickham wants you there."

"Honor may pale, but you put me to the blush, sir," protested Jane, making a show of retrieving her hand. "I can't. I return to England tonight."

"Oh, the beauty of your blush! Blessed, blithe, bounteous blush! Like the dew-touched petals of the fairest rose, spreading their bounty to the awe-struck sun." Whittlesby flung himself to his knees before her, lifting his face in exaggerated awe. "My orders were clear and urgent. Tonight. A carriage will be waiting. Bring your chaperone."

A shadow of a frown passed along Jane's serene face as she extended a gracious hand to the prostrate poet. "Only a heart of stone could resist such a plea, Mr. Whittlesby, and mine, alas, is of far more malleable matter."

Whittlesby pressed his forehead to her hand in humble obeisance, and extracted a roll of parchment tied with pink ribbons from the billowing muslin folds of his shirt. Flourishing it in the air to make sure that anyone in the salon watching might have a good view, he pressed the roll into Jane's hand.

"Every third word of every third line," he muttered. While Whittlesby's verse always served as vehicle, the code changed each time. The Ministry of Police knew Whittlesby only as a writer of bad poetry—it was a measure of Whitdesby's devotion to the cause that he was, in fact, quite a proficient poet, and had, before the war, entertained genuine ambitions in that direction—but the agents of the English Crown were taking no chances.

"I assure you, Mr. Whittlesby, I shall read it with the utmost care," replied Jane, making a great show of unrolling the paper so that anyone could see the irregular lines of verse scrolled across page. "I need a message sent."

Whittlesby staggered, and dropped to the ground, overcome with rapture at her acquiescence. "Done. To whom?"

"Come, come, sir! Steady yourself! How can I enjoy your ode with your collapse upon my conscience?" Bending over him in feigned concern, Jane outlined her wishes in a rapid whisper.

Whittlesby's eyes widened. "Good God! Who would have—"

"No, no, Mr. Whittlesby, say no more. I am quite overcome by your compliments." Jane extended a hand to help him up, her back to the salon. Her face was pale and serious as she said softly, "You must not fail."

Whittesby lifted Jane's gloved hand to his lips. "Fail my muse?" he said, with a twinkle of humor as his eyes flicked up at Jane. "Never."

Jane's eyes lacked an answering twinkle. "Some things, Mr. Whittlesby, are too serious for poetry."

"I will do my utmost," promised Whittlesby.

"I never expected less," said Jane austerely. Her fine lawn skirts flicked around the turn of the doorway, and were gone.

Within five minutes, the word had passed around Mme Bonaparte's salon. That tedious English poet had so distracted poor Miss Wooliston that she had departed for home under pretext of a headache—and who wouldn't, my dear? Really, the man was a pest; and his verse! The less said about his verse, better. As for Whittlesby, at least one should be spared his effusions for the remainder of the evening. He had departed mere moments after to Miss Wooliston, to succor flagging inspiration, he said. The dowagers knew what that meant. Inspiration, indeed! More like the bottom of a bottle. Disgraceful, quite disgraceful. But what could one expect of an Englishman and a poet?

While the dowagers gossiped on, in the Hotel de Balcourt, two women rapidly packed by candlelight. In a stable not far from the Tulleries, a man in a flowing shirt smacked his hand sharply against the rump of a horse. "No delay!" he called after the caped and hooded courier. The courier, one of three in possession of the identity of the

Black Tulip, waved a hand in enthusiastic assent. With clear roads, and favorable winds, he might even be in London by evening of the following day.

And in London, the deadliest of all spies plotted one final move. By the following evening, it would all be over…

* * *

Fool's Paradise: the illusion of calm, designed to lull one's adversary into incautious behavior; the invariable prelude to concerted enemy activity. See also under Path, Primrose.

—from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation

Miles strode jauntily past the guards on duty at 10 Crown Street, a posy of primroses in his hand and a beatific smile on his face. One of the guards nudged the other. "Who's he come courting?" he asked sarcastically, eliciting an appreciative snicker from his fellow.

Miles didn't notice. Miles was too happy to notice. In fact, he rather doubted that all of Bonaparte's artillery, ranged along the breadth of Pall Mall, could fright him out of his good humor just now. Miles shook his head in bemusement as he wove through the press of busy people in the corridor. What, after all, had changed? His best friend still hated him. A dangerous French spy was still on the loose in the streets of London. He had to somehow explain to Lord and Lady Uppington that he had—well, if not exactly eloped with their daughter, at least entered into a marriage so precipitate as to cause heads to wag until some greater scandal diverted the attention of the ton. That thought alone ought to have been enough to dampen even Miles's buoyant spirits.

Yet, even the prospect of confronting the Uppingtons—Lady Uppington expostulating, Lord Uppington grim—faded back into a dim backdrop when considered next to the image of Henrietta as he had left her, one pale arm flung over her head, hair any which way on the pillow, and mouth open as if she were about to say something, even while she slept. Miles grinned, remembering last night's spate of adjectives. One thing was for certain, life with Henrietta would never want for words.

Miles announced himself to Wickham's harried subordinate, who advised him to take a seat, and disappeared back into the inner sanctum.

Miles sat, and, despite telling himself he really ought to be thinking about useful topics, like spies, the catching of, went back to grinning besottedly. The person sitting next to him shuffled his chair discreetly in the opposite direction.

Amazing how three little words could cause such bother.

There were so many treacherous verbal trinities, mused Miles. I owe you. Pass the decanter. And, of course, Out that window! which, in Miles's experience, had caused more pain and ruined clothing than any other three words. Miles dragged in a deep breath. No matter how many trilogies he dredged up, there was no avoiding it. Those were not the three words at issue.

Somewhere along the line, he had fallen in love with Henrietta.

How in the hell had that happened? It didn't seem quite fair. He had just been going along his ordinary business; he hadn't gone mooning about like Geoff, or trysting with women under a secret identity like Richard, both of which could be reasonably assumed to end in uncomfortable romantic attachments while Cupid clutched his bow and doubled over with derisive laughter. But, yet, there he was. Grinning like a madman despite having been threatened with castration by his best friend and shot at by French agents; concocting romantic dinners instead of cunning plans; and, in his weaker moments, actually contemplating poetry. Fortunately for him, Henrietta, and the Western poetic tradition, the result of his contemplation was brief and decisive. He couldn't write it.

But he could make Henrietta happy, Miles assured himself. On the walk over to the War Office, he had given deep and serious thought to this weighty topic. There was, of course, always jewelry. It had been Miles's past experience that nothing said, "Thank you for a splendid night of passion," quite like a strand of emeralds. There were only two slight drawbacks to that plan. First, Henrietta already had a strand of emeralds, complete with matching bracelet and earrings. And, even if she hadn't… well, Miles couldn't quite put it into words, but the techniques one used to placate a mistress were perhaps not best suited to wooing a wife. He needed something more personal, more tender, more… damn. He couldn't even come up with appropriate adjectives, much less a dashing gesture that would sweep Henrietta off her feet. Aside from picking her up. He quite liked picking her up.

But this, he reminded himself selflessly, was supposed to be about Henrietta and what she would like, which also unfortunately ruled out boxing matches, trips to Tattersalls, and—Miles's personal favorite— the removal of clothing. From what he knew of females, they were generally more intrigued by the acquisition of clothing than the removal of it. Miles shook his head at the waste of time and fabric. Fig leaves. Now, there was a form of fashion he could support. Of course, some of those dresses of Henrietta's weren't half bad, the ones with the filmy skirts that outlined the length of her legs as she walked, and the scooped bodices that—ergh. Miles cast a guilty glance around the room and placed his hat on his lap with exaggerated nonchalance, wishing that current fashion didn't mandate breeches that were quite so damnably form-fitting.

Miles resolutely turned his mind to safer topics. He did vaguely remember hearing someone going on at a ball once about flowers speaking the language of love. Miles dubiously regarded the squished posy of primroses, already turning slightly brownish around the edges. They didn't say anything to him other than, "Water me!" He supposed there might be a metaphor in there somewhere—love needing nourishment, and all that sort of drivel, but from what he knew about gardening, nourishing flowers involved a great deal of compost, which even Miles was quite sure was about as far from romance as one could get. "Oh my love is like a dung heap" was far more likely to get a chamber pot flung at his head than cries of rapture.

Miles shook his head. He briefly considered nipping out of the War Office and running over to Hatchards for one of those romantic novels Henrietta seemed to find so engrossing, but rapidly rejected the idea. After all, even if he managed to find an appropriate book, how would he know where to look? He doubted they had an appropriate index, with entries like "Wives, for the wooing of," or convenient chapter headings, such as "How to Deliver a Declaration of Love in Ten Easy

Lessons." Miles cringed, imagining the derisive laughter sure to follow his possession of such a publication.

A dinner a deux, Miles decided. That was the ticket. There would be champagne, and oysters, and chocolate—not all at once, he concluded, after some consideration. Miles adjusted his mental image slightly and added some grapes, for the peeling of. He could feed them to Henrietta one by one, and if one, or two, or ten just happened to slip into her bodice and need retrieving, well, they were slippery things, peeled grapes. Those Romans certainly knew what they were doing, thought Miles happily. Peeled grapes… a couch big enough for two… maybe some custard…

Wickham's aide reappeared, loudly clearing his throat. Miles rose with a start, spilling an entire bucket of mental grapes, none of them, unfortunately, anywhere near Henrietta's bodice.