The Masque of the Black Tulip Read online

  Rolling his eyes, Miles set off to find himself a nice, comfortable leather chair, where he could sit and scheme without being assaulted by iambs.

  Tonight, he would search Lord Vaughn’s house. Tomorrow, he would avail himself of the registers at the Alien Office regarding recent arrivals from the Continent. Theoretically, every foreigner in London was supposed to register with the Alien Office upon arrival in the city. Vaughn’s contact might have slipped in illicitly (in fact, there was a high probability that he had), or he might have been in London for several months already, relaying messages brought by someone else, more recently arrived. Even so, it was the logical place to start searching for a mysterious man with a foreign accent.

  After all, someone had to protect England.

  Chapter Eleven

  Quadrille: a deadly dance of deceit

  – from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation

  By eleven o’clock that evening, Henrietta was in a state of intense irritation with both herself and the world.

  She was irritated by the silly fop who had just escorted her back to her mother (whoever had told him that a puce waistcoat was becoming with a chartreuse jacket?); she was irritated by the footman who offered her a glass of champagne; she was irritated with the cloying smell of lilacs that pervaded the ballroom; and she was irritated with the lace fringe on her cap sleeve that scratched against her arm and made her want to twitch like a demented bedlamite.

  Mostly, she was irritated with herself.

  It had been an irritable sort of day. She had spent the afternoon starting letters and crumpling them up; picking up books and putting them down again; staring sightlessly out the window; and being generally restless, purposeless, and cross. It had occurred to her, belatedly, that she probably would have been better off going to Charlotte’s fittings with her, just to have something to do. The reflection, coming as it did three hours too late, only made her crosser.

  Most of all, more than anything else, she was irritated with herself for her detailed knowledge of the movements of one blasted Miles blasted Dorrington. Henrietta had danced ten dances, sat out another chatting with Mary Alsworthy’s younger sister, Letty, pulled Pen back from the verge of the balcony and ensuing social ruin, and had a long discussion with Charlotte about the novels of Samuel Richardson and whether Lovelace was a romantic hero (Charlotte) or a treacherous cad (Henrietta) – all the while noting Miles’s each and every movement.

  Since their arrival at the ball, Miles had brought her lemonade, retreated to the card room, returned half an hour later to see if she wanted anything, and engaged in a long discussion with Turnip Fitzhugh about horses. She knew that he had gone out on the balcony for twenty minutes with a cheroot and two friends, danced a duty dance with Lady Middlethorpe, and very vividly acted out bits of yesterday’s boxing match for the edification of the Middlethorpes’ seventeen-year-old son.

  It was infuriating; it was idiotic; it was… Was that Miles over there?

  No. It wasn’t. Henrietta realised the strange gnashing noise she heard was her own teeth.

  She was behaving, Hen told herself firmly, like a great big ninny.

  What she needed, she decided, twitching irritably as that diabolical ruffle brushed her arm, was distraction. Obviously, she must be quite, quite bored, or she wouldn’t be playing silly games with herself over Miles, of all people. This was, after all, Miles, Henrietta reminded herself for the fiftieth time this evening. Miles. The man who had once balanced a chamber pot on the spire of St-Martin-in-the-Fields. He’d nearly been excommunicated for that one. He was also the same man who had managed to fall backwards into the duck pond at Uppington Hall while playing catch with Richard’s now-defunct corgi. True, he had been thirteen at the time, but Henrietta chose to remember the splashing and swearing and squawking (the last from the ducks, not Miles) instead. Not to mention his memorable performance as the Phantom Monk of Donwell Abbey. Henrietta had had nightmares for a week.

  To be fair, he’d also snuck her into the boys-only tree house, smuggled her her first champagne, and given her her favourite stuffed animal, Bunny the bunny (Henrietta had not been the most creative of small children). But Henrietta didn’t want to be fair. She wanted to regain her ability to ignore Miles. She had never thought of it as a specific talent until now.

  Clearly, she needed occupation. Looking for the French spy would be the ideal diversion – Henrietta perked up a bit at the thought – but she hadn’t the first notion of where to start looking. Jane’s letter, after all, had merely signalled the presence of a new operative, not anything distinguishing about him. Henrietta had, in a moment of desperation that afternoon, considered tackling her contact in the ribbon shop in Bond Street on that topic, but her instructions on that score had been clear: She was never to have any more conversation with the ribbon seller than that necessitated by the purchase of ribbons. To do otherwise could jeopardise the secrecy of the whole enterprise. Besides, for all she knew, the ribbon seller was just as much in the dark as she was.

  No, her only hope was Amy, who was bound to have some sort of idea as to where she should start. Amy always had ideas. Henrietta engaged in some desperate calculations. Even assuming that Amy sat down and replied to her letter the instant she received it – of course, it was easily possible for Amy to be distracted, leave it on her writing desk, and rediscover it a month later, but Henrietta refused to entertain that possibility – but, assuming the best, assuming Amy wrote at a speed at which no woman had written before, and handed it back to the courier before he could do more than gulp a glass of ale in the kitchens of Selwick Hall. Assuming the courier had fresh horses lined up along the way and rode as if ten highwaymen were dogging his heels. Assuming all that…it would still take at least another day, Henrietta concluded glumly.

  Blast.

  ‘Oh, look!’ exclaimed Lady Uppington, poking Henrietta in the arm. Henrietta rubbed irritably at the spot. Splendid. Now she was itchy and bruised. ‘There’s Miles dancing with Charlotte. Isn’t that sweet of the dear boy?’

  ‘Perishingly,’ said Henrietta sourly, following the direction of Lady Uppington’s punitive finger towards the dance floor, where Miles was pacing the elegant figures of the quadrille with Charlotte.

  One could see – or, at least, Henrietta could see – that he was making a valiant effort to make conversation with Charlotte, even though he hadn’t the slightest idea what to say to her. She could tell from the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the corners, and the way his brows drew together in concentrated thought, as if he were working very hard on a complicated philosophical theorem. He must have devised something, a comment about the weather, most likely, because his entire face cleared with relief. His eyebrows went up, his mouth opened, and a big, engaging smile spread across his face.

  Henrietta’s heart clenched in a way it had no business clenching over Miles.

  Over Charlotte’s shoulder, Miles caught Henrietta’s eye and grinned.

  Henrietta started, blushed, and swallowed half a glass of champagne the wrong way.

  Those bubbles up her nose hurt.

  When Henrietta had got over the worst of her coughing fit, Lady Uppington turned an inquisitive eye on her wheezing daughter. ‘You know, darling, you don’t appear to be in a very good mood this evening.’

  Henrietta repressed the urge to growl, partially because it would be undignified, and partially because her throat felt like it had been stripped raw by the champagne.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Darling.’ Lady Uppington gave her a deeply reproachful ‘don’t try to lie to your mother’ look. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing! I am having a brilliant time. Brilliant. Utterly, absolutely brilliant.’ Henrietta flung out her arms, which had the unfortunate side effect of giving the ruffle full rein along the sensitive underside of her arms. Henrietta scowled. ‘My sleeve itches.’

  ‘I told you not to choose that lace,’ Lady Uppington said unsympathetically, wavi
ng to an acquaintance.

  Was twenty too old to put oneself up for adoption?

  As Henrietta watched, Miles returned Charlotte to her grandmother, made a manful effort to dodge the dowager’s deadly pug dog, and beat a hasty retreat. Right in their direction. Henrietta snatched down the hand that had automatically risen to smooth her hair.

  Someone else had clearly been monitoring Miles’s movements as well, because as Miles moved towards their party, a dark figure glided out to intercept him. Today she was wearing smoky purple instead of black, but the figure inside the dress was unmistakable. It was That Woman. Seen up close, she was even more infuriatingly beautiful – why couldn’t she have a bad side? Or spots? A nice red spot would stand out so well on that perfect white skin.

  It wasn’t fair to hate her just because she made every other woman in a fifty-foot radius look like a troll, Henrietta scolded herself. After all, look at Helen and Aphrodite, made miserable by their very beauty – and, frankly, without much else to recommend them. It must have been very difficult to look like that. Hated by women, pursued by men for all the wrong reasons. Maybe she was shy.

  Hmph. Even Henrietta couldn’t make herself believe that one. There was nothing shy about the way the marquise was draping herself over Miles’s arm. At that rate, why didn’t she just fling her arms around his neck and have done with it? As if she had read Henrietta’s thoughts, the marquise chose just that moment to lift a gloved hand to Miles’s cheek.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake! Henrietta had had enough of standing gawking on the sidelines like a spectator at a bad play. She was really supposed to be dancing with Turnip Fitzhugh, but if Turnip hadn’t come to claim his dance, there was no reason she shouldn’t amuse herself by chatting with her old friend Miles.

  With a bright social smile fixed upon her lips like a shield and a champagne glass held aloft like a cavalry officer’s baton, Henrietta marched determinedly over to Miles, and placed herself at his arm.

  ‘Hello!’ she said brightly.

  ‘Uh, hello,’ said Miles, blinking at her sudden appearance.

  Resolving to give the horrid woman a chance, Henrietta turned to the marquise with the friendliest smile she could muster, and said in her warmest voice, ‘I have been admiring your gown all evening. The lace is exquisite!’

  The marquise eyed her rather as she would an importunate ferret. ‘Thank you.’

  Henrietta waited for the requisite return compliment. It did not materialise. Henrietta experienced a certain grim satisfaction at the knowledge that the woman was just as dislikeable in person as she was from a distance. Good. Now she didn’t have to try to be nice to her.

  Miles belatedly remembered his duty. ‘Madame de Montval, may I present Lady Henrietta Selwick?’

  ‘Selwick?’ The marquise pursed her lips becomingly in thought.

  Was there any gesture the woman used that wasn’t becoming? Henrietta would have willingly wagered the entire contents of Uppington House, including three Canalettos, assorted Van Dycks, and the family tiara, that the marquise had practiced her entire range of facial expressions in front of a mirror.

  ‘Oh, of course!’ The marquise unfurled her fan with a little trill of laughter. ‘The noble Purple Gentian! Are you related?’

  ‘My brother,’ said Henrietta shortly.

  ‘Those of us, my dear, who suffered in the late unpleasantness know only too well what a debt we owe him. But you would have been far too young to remember.’

  ‘In the nursery, crawling around on all fours and drooling,’ Henrietta agreed, so sweetly that Miles glanced at her sharply. She was tempted to make some comment about the marquise’s advanced age, but nobly declined to sink to her level. Besides, she couldn’t think of a clever way to phrase it.

  In Henrietta’s moment of hesitation, the marquise turned her attention back to Miles, placing a gloved hand caressingly on his wrist. ‘I so enjoyed our drive in the park today,’ she murmured.

  It was all Henrietta could do to keep her jaw from dropping in indignation. Their drive in the park! But…but…that was her drive. Of course, she’d been the one to turn the invitation down, but that reflection did nothing to alleviate the sting.

  ‘I never knew the Serpentine could be so enthralling,’ the marquise continued, looking up at Miles from under long dark lashes.

  What could possibly be enthralling about the Serpentine? It was a body of water. With ducks.

  ‘It all depends on what angle you look at it from,’ said Miles modestly.

  Preferably, thought Henrietta, from within the water, while being violently pecked by maddened warrior ducks.

  ‘Or,’ countered the marquise with a sultry smile, ‘on one’s companion.’

  Miles made noises of humble denial.

  The marquise begged to disagree.

  Hen clamped down on the urge to wave a hand in front of their faces and trill, ‘Hello! I’m here!’

  ‘I personally prefer to ride in the Row,’ she said loudly, just to have something to say.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Miles.

  Henrietta glowered at him. ‘It is a recently formed opinion.’

  ‘You hate the Row. You said that only pretentious fops and overdressed—’

  ‘Yes!’ Henrietta intervened. ‘Thank you, Miles.’

  ‘In the young,’ interjected the marquise understandingly, somehow managing to look down on Henrietta even though they were roughly of a height, ‘opinions change so quickly. When you grow older, Lady Henrietta, you will become more settled in your tastes.’

  ‘Yes.’ Henrietta nodded just as understandingly. ‘I imagine that’s what happens when one can’t get about as much. Do you suffer much from stiffness of the joints? My mother has an excellent remedy for it if you do.’

  The remark had been petty and childish and not terribly clever, but it hit its mark. The marquise’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The expression did nothing to improve her looks. It brought out little crow’s-feet on either side of her eyes. Henrietta hoped Miles was looking closely.

  ‘So kind.’ Dropping her hand from its permanent perch on Miles’s arm, the marquise snapped her fan shut with an audible click and regarded Henrietta narrowly. ‘Tell me, Lady Henrietta, do you share your brother’s interests?’

  Henrietta shook her head. ‘No, my mother won’t let me go to gaming halls. It might interfere with my bedtime.’

  Miles nudged her. Hard.

  Henrietta nudged back. Harder.

  ‘What in the hell is wrong with you tonight?’ muttered Miles.

  The marquise didn’t like being ignored. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dorrington. Did you say something?’

  ‘Nothing!’ chorused Henrietta and Miles, just as the great clock in the hall began striking midnight.

  One could barely hear the chimes over the din of the crowd – hundreds of voices talking and laughing, musicians playing, booted feet tapping across the parquet floor – but the faint echo of sound held Miles arrested.

  Damn, if he wanted to burgle Vaughn’s house, he should be about it now, before Vaughn grew bored with the insipid entertainment on offer in the Middlethorpes’ ballroom and wended his way home. Most likely, he would stop off at other affairs before seeking his bed, but Miles would feel safer if he knew Geoff was keeping an eye on him here.

  ‘Shall we continue our exploration of the park tomorrow, Mr Dorrington? There are so many paths still undiscovered.’

  ‘Um, certainly,’ said Miles, with no idea what he was agreeing to. Miles bowed to a point somewhere in between Hen and the marquise. ‘If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I just remembered something I promised Pinchingdale-Snipe. Dreadfully sorry, but needs must, and all that.’

  ‘Quite all right,’ said the marquise smoothly. She extended a gloved hand at such an angle that Miles couldn’t do anything but kiss it. ‘Until tomorrow, Mr Dorrington. Good evening, Lady Henrietta. It has been a singular pleasure.’

  ‘Words cannot convey the extremity of my rapture,’ replied Hen
rietta politely. She waggled her fingers at the marquise’s departing back.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Miles demanded, turning to face Henrietta.

  Henrietta drew herself up on her tiptoes, stuck her bosom out, and draped one hand languidly over Miles’s arm. ‘Oh, la, Mr Dorrington, how utterly enthralling you are! I declare I shall swoon from the ecstasy of your presence.’

  ‘Is it so bizarre that someone should appreciate me?’ Miles enquired.

  Henrietta snorted. ‘If she appreciated you any more, you’d both be banned from the ballroom.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be dancing with someone?’

  ‘He forgot.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Miles. ‘So that’s what put you in such a foul mood.’

  ‘I’m not in a foul mood.’

  Miles cast her a highly sardonic look. ‘Shall we simply say that you are not your usual vision of charm and good cheer?’

  Henrietta glowered.

  Miles backed away with exaggerated alarm. ‘Or I can just not say anything at all and leave quietly.’

  Hen flapped her hands at him. ‘Oh, just go away. I’m going to go find a nice little hole to crawl into.’

  Miles wondered if he ought to stay, making offerings of lemonade and quadrilles, but the hands of the clock were steadily inching past midnight. Besides, Hen in a bad mood was a rare and frightening occurrence. So Miles simply grinned a comradely grin, kept an eye on her until he saw her fall in with Charlotte, who, from the disgruntled look on Hen’s face, immediately enquired into her foul mood – Miles could faintly hear an irate ‘Why does everyone keep asking me that!’ floating from the other side of the ballroom – and went off in search of Geoff, to implement part one of his cunning plan.