The Masque of the Black Tulip (8 page)

So instead of tipping his head towards the nearest exit, Miles took the gloved hand that was offered him and tilted his torso in an elegant bow. Just for good measure, just so she wouldn't feel like all her wiles had been wasted, he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to her gloved palm. It was a gesture he had picked up years ago from an elderly Italian fellow named Giacomo Casanova. It never failed to please.

"Madam, it has been a pleasure."

"Not the last of its kind, I hope."

"Aren't the best pleasures unexpected ones?" Miles prevaricated. It struck him as a rather clever way of avoiding setting up an assignation.

"Sometimes anticipation can be as pleasant as surprise," countered the marquise. She closed her fan with a meaningful snap. "I ride in the park tomorrow at five. Perhaps our paths will cross."

"Perhaps." Miles's smile was as meaningful—and as meaningless— as hers. Since everybody rode in the park at five, the odds of their encountering each other were high, the odds of it being deliberate less so.

It had occurred to him that as the widow of a French marquis, she might be of some use in exploring the possibility of a spy lurking among the French emigre community, but she had mentioned, in the course of their brief, if innuendo-laden, conversation that she had returned from France two years previous, and spent the intervening time living quietly in Yorkshire in the first flush of mourning for her husband. Miles had better informed contacts in the emigre community— even if less attractive ones. Besides, his best point of departure on this assignment still seemed to be the agent's employer, Lord Vaughn.

The object of Miles's speculation was, at that very moment, moving in the direction of the group of young ladies clustered around the formidable Dowager Duchess of Dovedale.

Henrietta regarded the newcomer with interest. He wasn't precisely tall—not as Miles was tall, at any rate—but his lithe frame gave the impression of height. Unlike the more adventurous of the ton's young blades, who had decked themselves out in colors ranging from Nile green (as unfortunate to the complexion as it had been to Bonaparte's ambitions) to a particularly virulent shade of puce, the gentleman approaching was dressed in a combination of black and silver, like midnight shot through with moonlight. His hair carried out the theme, a few silver strands frosting rather than disguising the original black. Henrietta wouldn't have been surprised if he had silvered them intentionally, just to match his waistcoat; the confluence of colors was too perfect to be anything but planned. In one hand he carried a silver-headed cane. It was clearly intended for show, rather than use; despite the slight lacing of silver in his hair, he moved with a courtier's sinuous stride.

He looked, thought Henrietta, rather as she had imagined Prospero. Not Prospero in his island wilderness, but Prospero in all the decadence of Milan in his days of power—elegant, unreachable, and more than a little bit dangerous.

As he approached, clearly intent on joining their party, Henrietta noticed the silver serpent that slithered along the body of the cane, its fanged head constituting the handle. It was an ebony cane, of course. Henrietta had no doubt that, as he drew closer, the silver squiggles on his waistcoat would also resolve themselves into the twining, writhing bodies of snakes.

Silver serpents, for goodness' sake! Henrietta bit her lip on an impertinent chuckle. That was taking trying to look wicked and mysterious just a little too far. The mysterious verged so easily onto the ridiculous.

She controlled the impulse to laugh just in time; Prospero had reached them, and stood smiling before the duchess, one leg slightly bent, like an actor about to declaim.

"Vaughn, you old rogue!" exclaimed the duchess. "Haven't seen you about this age. So you've decided to come back, have you?"

"How could I not, when such beauty awaited me at home? I see that during my long absence, the Three Graces have removed from Olympus to brighten the dreary ballrooms of London."

"And who am I, the Gorgon?" The dowager cocked her powdered head. "I always fancied turning men to stone. Such a useful talent for dull parties."

Lord Vaughn bent over her hand. "You, as always, your grace, are a Siren, born to fright men from their wits."

"As well delivered an insult as I've ever heard! And I've delivered quite a few in my day. You always were a smooth-talking rogue, Vaughn. But I'll present you to these young chits, anyway." The duchess waved her cane dismissively at Charlotte, "My granddaughter, Lady Charlotte Lansdowne."

Charlotte sank into a dutiful curtsy. Lord Vaughn's quizzing glass passed over Charlotte's bowed blond head without interest.

"Miss Penelope Deveraux." Pen sketched the merest gesture of a curtsy. The quizzing glass rested on Penelope's clean-boned face and flaming hair for a moment, then continued its inexorable sweep onward.

"And Lady Henrietta Selwick."

"Ah, the sister of our gallant adventurer." On Lord Vaughn's lips, the word "gallant" sounded more insult than praise. "His fame has reached even the more remote corners of the Continent."

"I imagine they don't have much else to talk about," Henrietta said tartly, coming up out of her curtsy. "Being quite so remote."

For the first time, Lord Vaughn looked her full in the face, a flicker of interest in his heavy-lidded eyes. He let the quizzing glass dangle and took a step closer.

"Would you teach them more interesting topics, Lady Henrietta?"

he asked silkily, in a tone meant to make a lady's heart beat faster and her cheeks flush.

Henrietta's pulse picked up—with annoyance. Having grown up with two rakes-in-residence, namely Richard and Miles, she didn't fluster easily.

"The study of ancient literature is always a worthy pursuit," she suggested demurely.

Vaughn's quizzing glass dipped in the direction of the neckline of Henrietta's gown. "I prefer natural philosophy myself."

"Yes, I can see that." Some internal imp prompted Henrietta to say, "I could tell just by looking at the adorable serpents on your waistcoat, my lord."

Lord Vaughn cocked an eyebrow. "Adorable?"

"Um… yes." Blast that internal imp. It always got her into trouble. Henrietta cast about for a suitable response. "They're so… slitheringly sinuous."

"Perhaps your taste in waistcoats runs more to flowers?" he suggested smoothly.

Henrietta shook her head. Since she had gotten herself into this ridiculous conversation, she decided she might as well go on with it. "No, they're too insipid. What a waistcoat needs is a nice mythical beast. I'm particularly partial to gryphons."

"How unusual." Lord Vaughn eyed her with a slightly bemused expression, as though trying to ascertain whether she was exceptionally clever or some sort of entertaining oddity like a parrot who could recite Donne. "What are your sentiments regarding dragons?"

Henrietta cast a pointed look in the direction of the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale. "I'm quite fond of some of them."

"If your fondness extends towards the Oriental varieties, I have a modest collection of Chinese dragons in my possession. They would be, I am sure, quite different from any you have seen."

"I will admit my experience with dragons has been limited, my lord," Henrietta hedged warily. Over Lord Vaughn's shoulder, she could see her mother bearing purposefully across the room, looking uncommonly irked. "One encounters so few. They are nearly as elusive as unicorns."

“Or the Pink Carnation?” suggested Lord Vaughn lightly. “I’m giving a masked ball at my home in two days time. If you would grace the event with your presence, I would be more than pleased to make you known to my dragons.”

“I hope they’re not in the habit of eating tender young maidens,” Henrietta quipped, hoping to direct the subject back to the general and inconsequential, and away from her putative attendance at Lord Vaughn’s masquerade. “I hear dragons have a tendency to do that.”

“My dear young lady”— Lord Vaughn’s long-fingered hand stroked the serpentine head of his cane—“I can give you my best assurance that—”

“Hello!” Miles rudely burst in on the conversation. “Do hope I’m not interrupting. Hen, your lemonade.”

“Thank you.” Henrietta greeted Miles with some relief and peered dubiously into her cup, which contained about half an inch of yellow liquid. The rest, judging from the stickiness under Henrietta’s fingers, had evidently sloshed over the sides during Miles’s enthusiastic progress from the refreshment table. “Lord Vaughn, do you know Mr. Dorrington?”

“Vaughn, did you say?” Miles perked up inexplicably, then his face relaxed into a big grin. “Vaughn, old chap!” Miles pounded Lord Vaughn on the back. “Care for a hand of cards?”

Henrietta hadn’t known that Miles was acquainted with Lord Vaughn. Clearly, neither had Lord Vaughn, who was regarding Miles as though he were a strange stick insect who had crawled out of his ratafia.

“Cards,” he repeated delicately.

“Excellent!” enthused Miles. “Nothing like a good game of cards, eh, Vaughn? Why don’t you tell me about your travels on the Continent…” Taking the earl by the arm, he propelled him in the direction of the card room, passing Lady Uppington on the way.

“That was well done of Miles,” commented Lady Uppington with approval. “Your father would have done the same.”

“Well done?” repeated Henrietta incredulously. “He all but kidnapped the man.”

“He did just as he should. Lord Vaughn,” pronounced Lady Uppington, in her best “I-am-your-mama-and-therefore-know-everything” voice, “is a rake.”

“Isn’t Miles?” countered Henrietta, retnembering several tales she wasn’t supposed to have heard.

Lady Uppington smiled fondly at her daughter. “No, darling. Miles is a dear make-believe rake. Lord Vaughn,” she added disapprovingly, “is the real thing.”

“He is an earl,” teased Henrietta.

“Darling, if I ever turn into one of those sorts of mothers, you have my permission to elope with the first bounder who comes your way. Provided he’s a good-hearted sort of bounder,” Lady Uppington added as an afterthought. “Not that I wouldn’t mind your marrying an earl, but the most important thing is that you find—”

“I know,” Henrietta broke in, in her best wearisome-youngest-child voice, “someone who loves me.”

“Whoever said anything about love?” countered Lady Uppington, herself the rare possessor of one of the ton’s few love matches, a marriage so sickeningly happy that it had led to decades of raised eyebrows and envious stares. “No, darling, what you want to look for is a good leg.”

“Mother!”

“So easy to shock,” murmured Lady Uppington, before saying seriously, “Be on your guard around Vaughn. There are stories…” Lady Uppington stared in the direction of the card room, a distinct furrow appearing between her elegantly arched brows.

“Stories?” prompted Henrietta.

“They’re not appropriate for your ears.”

“Oh, but assessing a gentleman’s legs is?” muttered Henrietta.

Lady Uppington pursed her lips. “I don’t know what I did to deserve such impertinent children. You’re as bad as your brothers. Brother,” she corrected herself, since everyone knew Charles was a model of decorum. “But just this once, Henrietta Anne Selwick, I want you to listen to me without an argument.”

“But, Mother—“

“Miles won’t always be around to extricate you from awkward situations.”

Henrietta opened her mouth to make a snide comment about that being Miles's one purpose in life. Lady Uppington cut her off with one raised hand.

"Take your wise old mother's advice, and stay well away from Lord Vaughn. He is not a suitable suitor. Now, aren't you supposed to be dancing with someone?"

"Bleargh," said Henrietta.

* * *

Cards, Game of: a battle of wits waged against an inscrutable agent of the Ministry of Police. See also under Hazard.

—from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation

"What say you, Vaughn? Care for another hand?" Miles fanned the deck of cards out temptingly on the tabletop.

He still couldn't quite believe his luck in stumbling across Vaughn at Almack's, of all places. Clearly, someone somewhere was smiling on his efforts. Had Vaughn not been speaking to Henrietta at just that moment…

He would have tracked Vaughn down eventually, anyway. It just would have taken longer. Miles had evolved, over the course of the afternoon, a very logical plan of action for stalking Vaughn, involving finding out which clubs the older man belonged to, at which hours he tended to frequent them, and where he might be best waylaid. This was much easier.

The only problem was, none of Miles's probing questions had obtained the slightest result. Miles had tried commenting casually on the difficulty of finding good footmen nowadays. Lord Vaughn had shrugged. "My man of business takes care of that for me."

No "Dash it all, they're always dying on me!" No "Funny thing, one of my footmen just happened to snuff it this morning." One might expect some reaction—incredulity, annoyance, distress—from an innocent employer whose footman had recently been murdered. There hadn't been any sudden guilty start or any shifting of eyes, either, but

Miles found the absence of reaction just as suspicious as Vaughn's failure to mention the incident.

References to the gallant exploits of our flowery friends, the difficulty of traveling on the Continent in this time of troubles, and the shocking rise of crime in the metropolis (especially murder) over the past few weeks had elicited equally little more than polite murmurs. In fact, the only topic in which Lord Vaughn showed the slighted interest was the Selwick family. Lord Vaughn had asked several questions about the Selwicks. Miles, in his role of tiresome young man, had bombarded him with inconsequentialities, like the color of Richard's curricle, and the fact that the Selwicks' cook made exceptionally good ginger biscuits, none of which seemed to be quite what Vaughn was looking for.

Suspicious, decided Miles. Highly suspicious.

Unfortunately, he had nothing to confirm his suspicions. Almack's, alas, was not ideally suited to spying. There was no strong liquor with which to coax Lord Vaughn into a state of gregarious inebriation, and the stakes allowed in the card room were too low for Miles to contrive to lose enough that Miles would have to give Vaughn his vowels (thus cleverly necessitating a visit to Vaughn's house). So far, Miles had lost precisely two shillings and sixpence. There could be no hope of convincing Lord Vaughn that he didn't have the blunt.