The Masque of the Black Tulip (50 page)

Henrietta beamed.

"Don't get any ideas," Miles warned. "If I have to go through another afternoon like that one, I'm locking you in a tower for life."

"Will you share it with me?" asked Henrietta softly, trying not to sound as though every fiber of her being was concentrated into those seemingly banal words.

Miles's battered lips quirked into a cocky grin that made his cut lip crack open again. Miles didn't seem to notice. He was just opening his mouth to speak, when a loud voice bleated from the other side of the room.

"I say!" called Turnip. "Hate to interrupt, but I'm having a spot of bother over here."

With an expression of intense annoyance, Miles broke off, turning to survey the wreckage.

Henrietta did likewise, contemplating Turnipicide. Blast, blast, blast. What had Miles been about to say? He might have missed the point entirely. He might have been about to have made a snide remark about incarcerated princesses or her inability to share or any number of things. Or not. It was very hard to interpret the expression of someone whose eye was swelling up and whose lip was trickling blood like a vampire with a drinking problem.

On the other side of the room, Jean-Luc sprawled on the carpet, a dented silver coffeepot lying beside him. Jean-Luc's skull might have been thick, but old silver was thicker. The two footmen whose heads Miles had banged together were also lying on the floor. One twitched groggily, opened an eye, saw Miles, and hastily went limp again, which Henrietta thought an entirely sensible reaction given the circumstance.

Of the two remaining, one was leaning against the wall, holding his arm at an odd angle and emitting occasional groaning noises. The final ruffian had Turnip pinned beneath the settee, and was making forays with a poker, like a cat swiping at a mouse.

Henrietta and Miles exchanged one look and both burst out laughing.

"I say," came Turnip's aggrieved voice from beneath the settee. "It's not funny!"

Henrietta laughed harder, clutching her stomach as all the tension of the long, awful day rolled out of her in peal after peal of helpless laughter.

"Steady there, old girl," said Miles, but there was enough warmth in his voice to make the laughter catch in Henrietta's throat. "Toss me a bit of rope to tie her up, will you?"

Henrietta swiped tears out of her streaming eyes, and unlooped one of the tasseled cords that held back the threadbare drapes. The curtain fell, plunging the room half into shadow.

"Will this do?" she asked.

"Brilliantly," said Miles.

"Hmph," said the marquise.

"Well, well," said an entirely different voice altogether.

In the open sitting room door, a new shadow fell across the threshold. Miles swiveled towards the door, the marquise still pinioned in his grasp. Henrietta froze, rope still dangling from her hand.

Across the threshold strolled a pair of gleaming black boots. The new visitor wore a black brocade frock coat shot through with silver. A shining quizzing glass framed in the shape of a snake swallowing its own tail dangled just below the immaculate folds of his cravat. In one hand, he carried hat and gloves, with the casual air of a gentleman paying a morning call. A sword swung jauntily from his side.

One elegant hand went to the sword at his hip with the air of a man who well knew how to use it. The light winked off the rings adorning his hand as his fingers closed around the silver hilt.

"Is this a private party, or may anyone join in?" drawled Lord Vaughn.

* * *

Deus ex Machina: 1) an interfering interloper of unascertain-able intentions; 2) a weak plot device. Note: Neither is to be desired.

—from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation

"Sebastian," said the marquise flatly, so flatly that Henrietta couldn't tell if she was pleased or distressed or even the least bit surprised.

The marquise's use of Lord Vaughn's first name did not bode well. The marquise had never admitted straight out to being the Black Tulip. What if she were only a lieutenant, a second in command acting on the orders of someone altogether more deadly and devious?

Miles's reaction was decidedly less ambiguous.

"Vaughn," he gritted out, tightening his grip on the marquise, who was showing a distressing inclination to use the distraction as an excuse to escape. "What in the hell are you doing here?"

"I succumbed to a gallant impulse. I perceive"—Vaughn's lazy eyes took in the dazed French operatives, the shaking settee, and the marquise, her arms pinioned by Miles—"that it was unnecessary."

Miles was in no mood for circumlocutions. "Whose side are you on?" he asked bluntly.

Vaughn extracted an enameled snuffbox from his pocket, and flipped open the lid. With an elegant gesture, he dropped a pinch of snuff upon his sleeve and sniffed delicately. "I must say, I wonder that myself sometimes."

"His own," responded the marquise, trying to yank her wrists out of Miles's grasp. "Isn't that right, Sebastian?"

"Not this time," replied Lord Vaughn, lazily surveying the room. "I find myself inexplicably drawn to altruism in my old age."

"Is that altruism on behalf of the French?" asked Henrietta, hovering protectively next to Miles.

Vaughn looked blank. "Wherever did you acquire that absurd idea?"

"Secret meetings," put in Miles, holding both the marquise's wrists in one hand and hastily yanking the cord around them with the other. If Vaughn was planning to employ his sword for pernicious purposes, Miles wanted the marquise safely trussed. The thought of her looming over Henrietta, stiletto poised to strike, sent black bile bubbling through his chest like the contents of a witch's cauldron.

The marquise flinched as Miles tugged the knot closed with unnecessary force. "Mysterious documents. Clandestine conversations. And"— Miles gave the rope an extra yank—"your obvious acquaintance with her." He indicated the marquise with a curt nod of his head. Rising without ever taking his eyes off Vaughn, Miles moved to stand protectively in front of Henrietta.

Henrietta immediately popped back around.

"Who is the 'she' you were looking for?" asked Henrietta, eyeing Vaughn's sword askance. "Any why did you lie about having been in Paris ?"

"That," said Vaughn, "is no one's business but my own, even to you."

Henrietta wasn't quite sure what to make of that "even." Miles was. His shoulders squared in a way that boded ill to Vaughn's preference for privacy. "Not when the safety of the realm is at issue."

"I assure you, Mr. Dorrington," drawled Vaughn, in a tone calculated to annoy, "the realm has little to do with it."

"Then what does?" Miles asked sharply.

"My wife."

"Your wife?" echoed Henrietta.

Vaughn's lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. "I admit, after all this time, the phrase does not dance trippingly off the tongue. Yes, my wife."

"Your dead wife?" repeated Miles with heavy sarcasm.

"His not-so-dead wife," interjected the marquise, a slight smile playing about her lips.

Vaughn twisted sharply to look down at her. "You knew?"

"It came to my attention," replied the marquise calmly. "Would someone care to explain?" growled Miles. "Not you," he added, as the marquise opened her mouth.

"It's quite simple, really," said Vaughn blandly, in a tone that suggested it was anything but. "Ten years ago, my wife… chose to depart. The details are unimportant. Suffice it to say that she left, and in such a way as to make the tale of illness the best way of warding off scandal."

"So you knew she was alive?" ventured Henrietta.

"No. The carriage in which she had departed had an unfortunate encounter with a cliff. I assumed she was in it. I labored under this happy misapprehension until three months ago, when the first of several letters arrived, advising me of her continued existence, and offering up certain of her correspondence as proof."

"Ah!" said Miles. He still had that note floating around somewhere, most likely in his waistcoat pocket, along with the name of Turnip's tailor.

"Ah?" Henrietta looked at him quizzically.

"Later," muttered Miles.

Vaughn, however, had reached his own conclusions regarding missing correspondence and rifled rooms.

"Were you the ruffian who attacked my poor valet? Hutchins has been limping for this past fortnight." Using his quizzing glass, Vaughn gestured languidly at one of the perfectly starched ruffles of his cravat, "k has quite affected his treatment of my linen. Nervous temperament, you understand."

"At least I didn't have your valet stabbed," glowered Miles.

"Stabbed?" asked Vaughn, eyebrows ascending.

"Don't claim you don't know about it."

"He doesn't," put in the marquise, working at the bonds on her wrists.

"Your credibility," Miles informed her, swooping down and yanking the rope into a third knot, just in case, "is not exactly the highest just now."

The marquise straightened her back and looked down her nose, no easy feat for one sprawled on the ground, encompassed by a curtain cord.

"Would the Republic employ such a warped tool?"

"From what I've seen"—Henrietta removed a hidden stiletto from the marquise's hair, eying both it and its owner with distaste—"yes."

"I cannot tell you how flattered I am by the universally high assessment of my character," commented Lord Vaughn. "Remind me of that the next time I contemplate a spot of knight errantry."

Henrietta flushed guiltily. "I am sorry."

"I'm not," said Miles. "Madame Fiorila?"

"An old friend, nothing more. She was kind enough to offer her services in pursuit of my errant spouse. My valet?"

Miles had the grace to look sheepish. "A mistake on my part. One last question. Why all the interest in Henrietta?"

Vaughn directed a shallow bow in the direction of Henrietta, who was mining the marquise's coiffure for instruments of destruction. A small pile had developed next to her, safely out of the reach of the marquise. "You, of all people, should be able to discern the reason for that, Mr. Dorrington."

"Right," mumbled Miles.

Damn. He had liked it better when he thought Vaughn was a spy. But Henrietta wouldn't have been interested in an attenuated rake. Would she? Women did tend to be drawn to the sardonic, brooding type—look at all those romances Henrietta was constantly trading back and forth with Charlotte. The thought was enough to turn Miles's blood icier than the Thames in January. He glanced towards Henrietta, but the blush that heated her cheeks as she steadily met Vaughn's gaze did nothing to allay Miles's fears or improve his temper.

The marquise emitted a husky laugh with an undertone harsh as sandpaper. "So that explains it! I wondered what might move you to interfere in my affairs at this late date, Sebastian. I hadn't thought it would be anything so"—her derisory glance flicked over Henrietta's begrimed face and tousled hair—"common."

Vaughn regarded her with grim amusement. "You always had all the sensibility of a rhinoceros, didn't you, Theresa?"

"There was a time when you thought otherwise."

"There was a time," Vaughn returned, with a fastidious flick of his handkerchief, "when I had very poor taste."

The marquise's lips went white around the edges.

Henrietta felt rather as though she had arrived late to the theatre and entered a play in the third act. "Do forgive me for interrupting," she said, with what she thought was eminently pardonable asperity, "but what are you talking about?"

"Has Theresa"—the way Vaughn drawled the name, drawing out the central vowel, resonated with insult—"told you about her activities in Paris? Marat, Danton, Robespierre, all friends of our fair Theresa. Of course, that was many years ago, when it was still fashionable to court the extreme. But you didn't stop there, did you?"

"You knew them, too."

"It was an intellectual exercise for me. But not for you, was it?" Vaughn tapped a finger thoughtfully against the enameled lid of his snuffbox. "I must say, you have surprised me. I shouldn't have thought you would like your new masters any better than your old ones."

"You never understood," the marquise replied scornfully.

"Far better than you, I believe," countered Vaughn. "With your brave new Republic baptized in blood. Was it worth it, Theresa?"

"Can you ask?"

"Can you answer?"

"Can you save the Platonic dialogue for some other occasion?" demanded Miles, stomping over towards* the marquise. "As fascinating as I'm sure we all find this little window into your past, Vaughn, I, for one, will feel better when our flowery friend here is safely in the custody of the War Office."

"I second that," said Henrietta, rubbing her bruised arm. Little welts were already beginning to form where the marquise's fingernails had bitten into her skin, complementing the graze on Henrietta's forehead, the scratches on her knees, and more contusions than she cared to think about.

Vaughn's sword rang free of its scabbard.

Miles whirled into a defensive crouch, casting about for something with which to fight him. Catching sight of a large metal object on the floor, he grabbed for Henrietta's discarded shovel and raised it to the ready. Vaughn ignored him. Instead of turning his sword on Henrietta or Miles, Vaughn put the gleaming tip to the marquise's throat. In a movement so delicate that it didn't even raise a line on her pale skin, he drew out a gleaming silver chain.

"You might want to show this little bagatelle to your superiors when you deliver our charming Theresa to them," Vaughn said mildly.

Miles let the shovel drop, looking rather disappointed at being balked of the chance to bludgeon Vaughn.

Henrietta let out all her pent-up breath. She hadn't thought she was that terribly obvious, but Vaughn quirked a jaded eye in her direction. As Miles bent to examine the marquise's necklace, Vaughn sheathed his sword and took a step towards Henrietta.

"Did you really think I was going to use that on you?"

Henrietta made an apologetic face. "The evidence really was quite damning."

Vaughn's voice was rich with shared memory, smoky and evocative as incense. "So I remain doomed to be damned, Lady Henrietta?"