The Masque of the Black Tulip Read online

  ‘Is it any relation to Hedgus pricklianus?’ enquired Miles.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Henrietta loftily. ‘There’s no such thing as Hedgus pricklianus.’

  ‘Right.’ Miles nodded very solemnly, but Henrietta could see his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. ‘Not like Shrubbus – what was it again? – victorious, that well-known botanical wonder.’

  Would it be an impediment to their future married bliss if she clouted him over the head with a fallen tree branch?

  Miles was starting to make little snorting noises, like a dragon about to blow. ‘How’ – sputter – ‘clever of you to disguise yourselves so that you don’t scare away the shrubbery.’

  ‘Touchy things, hedges,’ agreed Henrietta.

  The snorts and sputters took over. Even the horses joined in, bucking and snorting, until Miles recovered enough to grab for the reins, still clutching his ribs with his spare hand. Henrietta caught Miles’s eye as he rolled with mirth, and reluctantly grinned back.

  Oh, fine, so it was funny.

  Penelope gave her a ‘This is what you want to fall in love with you?’ look.

  ‘What in the blazes are you really doing out here?’ asked Miles, when he’d calmed the horses. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be having a voice lesson?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Henrietta fell back a step, one grass-stained hand to her lips like an actress in a bad melodrama. ‘What time is it?’

  Penelope fished the pretty enamel watch she wore on a chain around her neck out of her bodice and flicked it open. ‘Six-fifteen.’

  ‘Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no,’ repeated Henrietta. She looked frantically from side to side, as though a magic carpet might suddenly appear out of the air and whisk her back to Uppington House. ‘I was supposed to be home fifteen minutes ago.’

  Miles leant over the side of the phaeton, hair flopping in typical disarray across his face. ‘I can drive you home, if you’d like.’

  Next to him, the marquise emitted a delicate but forceful sniff.

  That decided it. ‘Thank you,’ said Henrietta firmly. ‘I would be most grateful. Unless…’

  She looked quizzically at her two best friends.

  Penelope shook her head and flapped a hand at her in a gesture of dismissal. ‘You go ahead.’ She looked at Charlotte. ‘We’ll finish our nature walk.’

  ‘So many shrubs still unexplored!’ chimed in Charlotte.

  Thank you, Henrietta mouthed, as Miles swung down from the phaeton. With a hand on her elbow, he boosted her up into the high equipage next to the marquise, who was studiedly looking the other way, as though engrossed in the glories of the landscape.

  Having got Henrietta settled in the curricle, Miles climbed up to resume his seat. There was just one problem. There was no seat to resume. The phaeton had been designed for two, not three.

  ‘Could you scoot over?’

  Henrietta slid down the seat the half inch or so that separated her from the marquise, leaving a grand total of three inches for Miles. ‘I don’t think there’s any more room to scoot,’ she said apologetically. ‘I can always get out and walk.’

  The horses were beginning to grow restless at being kept standing so long.

  ‘Never mind.’ Miles plunged into the seat. Henrietta let out an unintentional whoosh of air as she careened into the marquise. The marquise said nothing, but her lips got very tight and her eyes very narrow.

  ‘See? All cosy,’ said Miles heartily, twitching the reins to set the horses moving. Hen gave him a wry look. The marquise sat very straight, and arranged her violet-gloved hands in her lap, looking anything but cosy. Scrunched between the two of them, Henrietta felt like a recalcitrant child who had been caught eavesdropping and was being hauled home. Which, she admitted unhappily, wasn’t all that far from the truth. The thought was not an uplifting one.

  ‘What lovely gloves,’ Henrietta ventured, in an attempt to paint a thin veneer of sociability over the situation. She scrunched her own grass-stained gloves into the folds of her skirt, hoping the marquise wouldn’t notice. ‘Did you bring them with you from Paris?’

  ‘I brought very little with me from Paris,’ replied the marquise frostily. ‘Revolutions leave one little time to pack.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Henrietta, wishing she had never spoken at all. ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Everything was taken from us – the château, the townhouse, the paintings, even my jewels. I fled Paris with barely the clothes on my back.’

  On the marquise’s lips, her flight sounded more sultry than sordid, conjuring images of artfully tattered rags fluttering from barely concealed curves, Venus in distress fleeing her shell. Henrietta’s heart sank somewhere beneath the horses’ hooves, each thud of their shoes against the cobbles a pressure against her chest. How could she have hoped to compete?

  ‘It sounds dreadful,’ Henrietta said woodenly. ‘How did you contrive to escape?’

  To add injury to insult, the marquise’s hip bone was sharper than any hip bone had a right to be, and, wiggle though she might, Henrietta couldn’t seem to get away from it. Every time she managed to evade the marquise, there was Miles on her other side, glowering at the reins as though they had done something to offend him.

  As Henrietta struggled to maintain a polite conversation with the marquise – and avoid being skewered – Miles went from quiet to cross to surly. If they were alone, Henrietta would have poked him, and demanded to know what was wrong. As it was, she couldn’t get her hand free to poke him even if she wanted to. It was stuck somewhere between her skirt and Miles’s thigh. The strap of her reticule bit into her fingers, which were rapidly growing numb.

  Henrietta gave her hand an experimental tug.

  Miles growled.

  ‘Did I scratch you?’ Henrietta said over a description of the charms of the dead marquis and the dead marquis’s châteaux.

  ‘No,’ grumbled Miles, somehow managing to utter the syllable without ever opening his mouth.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Henrietta twisted in her seat to look at Miles. Miles continued to look at the reins.

  Miles was having a difficult time remembering the meaning of ‘all right.’ He was broiling in his own private hell. For once, it was nothing to do with the French. It was entirely Henrietta.

  Devil take it, he’d ridden with Henrietta dozens of times before – hundreds! He’d never had the slightest bit of difficulty keeping his mind out of uncomfortable places that made his cravat – and other bits of his attire – feel suddenly too tight. Of course, on those other rides, there hadn’t been three people in a seat meant for two. On those other rides, Henrietta hadn’t been pressed intimately against him, so intimately that he could feel every curve of hip and thigh outlined with burning accuracy against him. Miles tried scooting, subtly, to the side, but there was nowhere at all to scoot; they were welded closer together than a pickpocket to a purse.

  Just when Miles thought that there was nothing more unbearable than the feel of her jammed up against his side, the blasted vehicle swayed. A warmly rounded bit of Henrietta’s anatomy brushed against his left arm. Then she wiggled again.

  And Miles realised it could get worse. Much worse. He was in that peculiar circle of Dante’s Inferno reserved for those who had been caught thinking lustful thoughts about their best friends’ sisters. True, he couldn’t recall Dante mentioning that one specifically, but he was certain it had to be in there. This was his punishment for dwelling on certain details of Henrietta’s appearance that he shouldn’t have been dwelling on. In fitting punishment, measure for measure, breast for breast, he now had to endure their proximity in excruciating detail, and the worst of it was, he couldn’t do a single thing about it.

  The five-minute drive to Uppington House had never felt longer.

  ‘Ungh,’ Miles responded, which Henrietta, from her long exposure to the vagaries of male communication, took as ‘No, I’m in a vile mood, but I can’t admit it, so leave me alone.’

  Henrietta had the unhappy fe
eling she knew the cause of his ill humour. And it wasn’t the horses, the reins, or the state of the war with France. It was an unwanted presence in the middle of his curricle, separating him from the seductive marquise and her roving hands.

  Henrietta would have complied, and left him alone – if there was any way she could have fled the curricle entirely that wouldn’t have involved a suicidal leap and a painful death being crushed by carriage wheels, she would have done so – but just then she felt something slip from her squished fingers and fall with a dull thud on the footrest.

  Oh, blast, that was her reticule.

  There was no way she could unobtrusively lean down and scoop it up. Even if her right hand wasn’t trapped between her and Miles, it would be uncouth to bend over like that in an open carriage in the middle of a well-travelled street. On the other hand, she didn’t want to just leave it lying there. What if the carriage swerved abruptly, and it fell out? Her mother would never let her hear the end of it. Maybe if she just managed to slide her foot through the loop, then she could ever so subtly lift her foot until it was at a level where she could quietly pluck it up with no one the wiser.

  Henrietta started feeling around the baseboard with one booted foot. It would be much easier if she could look down, but between her skirts and the marquise’s, she couldn’t see anything, anyway.

  The marquise was commenting on the beauties of the spring, and Henrietta, exploring a likely shaped lump with her toe, made an equally banal response. For all of her beauty, the marquise was really an incredibly boring woman. Maybe, Henrietta thought absently, feeling around the lump, it was all because she was beautiful; she’d never had to try to be interesting. If only she could impress the fact of the marquise’s dullness upon Miles in a way that didn’t come out sounding hopelessly spiteful. That would be a conundrum for later; for now, she was fairly sure she’d found her reticule, and just needed to try to jolt it around so that she could get her foot through the loop. But it wasn’t moving.

  Maybe it was stuck against something.

  Blast it all, the loop had to be somewhere. Henrietta started feeling for the top of the little bag.

  Miles leapt halfway out of his seat.

  Ooops. Maybe that hadn’t been the reticule.

  ‘What in the name of Hades do you think you’re doing?’ Miles roared. A nearby horse reared. Heads turned in passing carriages. Curtains twitched.

  The marquise looked like she wished she were in anybody else’s carriage.

  ‘I dropped my reticule,’ Henrietta said, somewhat breathlessly. Miles had landed on her. ‘I was trying to pick it up.’

  ‘With your foot?’ Miles slid off Henrietta’s lap and shoved himself as far against the opposite side of the carriage as he could go.

  ‘My hand was stuck,’ explained Henrietta reasonably, wiggling the erring appendage.

  ‘Ungh,’ said Miles.

  Henrietta wasn’t quite sure how to interpret that grunt.

  ‘I think,’ said the marquise darkly, ‘I should like to go home now.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’re next,’ Miles said shortly. His curt tone would have done much to raise Henrietta’s spirits if it hadn’t been the exact same tone he’d been using with her.

  Miles yanked the horses to a stop in front of Uppington House and leapt out of the phaeton with all the alacrity of an early Christian martyr dodging a lion. He grabbed Henrietta around the waist and swung her down from the carriage, setting her down in front of her house with a jarring thud. Leaning back into the carriage, he snatched up the offending reticule.

  Henrietta took the reticule from him, saying very carefully, ‘Thank you for the ride home.’

  Miles unbent enough to give her a sheepish half-smile. Henrietta’s heart stirred and ached with thwarted affection.

  ‘’S’all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tonight. Aren’t you late?’

  Oh, blast, she kept forgetting about her music lesson. Calling a quick goodbye over her shoulder, Henrietta scurried up the steps of Uppington House. As Winthrop opened the door for her, she heard the sound of Miles’s horses resuming their journey. Hopefully straight to drop the marquise off at home.

  Henrietta didn’t let herself dwell on the thought. She dropped her reticule on a table in the hall, and rushed into the music room. The harp loomed uncovered and unused; the pianoforte, with its intricately painted lid and golden legs, sat mute. There was no sign of Signor Marconi.

  Henrietta glanced at the gilded clock on the mantel. Both hands were pointing delicately at the six. She was half an hour late. He’d probably given up and left. Blast! Just over from the Continent, Marconi was in great demand, and she’d counted herself lucky to secure lessons with him. Now, with her romantic folly, she had probably just convinced Miles she was mad and lost her voice teacher all in one fell swoop. Urgh.

  Making annoyed noises at herself, Henrietta scurried back out into the hall.

  ‘Signor Marconi?’ she called, just in case he might have been shown into one of the drawing rooms to wait.

  There was a rustle of sound from the morning room. Expelling her breath in a long sigh of relief, Henrietta raced down the hall and careened around the doorframe, babbling breathlessly, ‘Signor Marconi? I’m so dreadfully sorry to be so late! I was delayed in—’

  She broke off abruptly. Henrietta’s surge of relief was replaced by confusion as the source of the rustling noise became clear.

  The black-garbed figure of Signor Marconi was bent over her opened escritoire, papers in each hand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Flattered: under suspicion by the Ministry of Police; subject to intense scrutiny, and possibly attack. See also under Signal Honour

  – from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation

  Henrietta stumbled to a halt, physically and verbally.

  Marconi hastily shoved the papers back into the cavity of the desk. Straightening, he flung both arms wide.

  ‘I look-a for dee – how you say? Dee paper. I look-a for dee paper to write you dee note to tell you I no wait longer. But now’ – Marconi shrugged, as though that solved everything – ‘you are here. So I no need dee paper.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to be late,’ Henrietta repeated, gathering hold of her scattered wits.

  Moving past him, she shut the lid of the escritoire, and turned the key. It wasn’t as though there were anything terribly secret in there – all of her letters from Jane and the little codebook she kept upstairs in her room, hidden, with her diary, in an empty chamber pot under her bed – but it was her private space, and she preferred her private space to remain private. Hence, the lock.

  But Signor Marconi didn’t know that, so Henrietta simply said, ‘Next time, if you need writing implements, just ask Winthrop, and he’ll bring them to you.’

  ‘About dee lesson’ – Signor Marconi tugged at his little black moustache – ‘I have-a dee udder engagement.’

  ‘Dee…?’ Henrietta shook her head to block out visions of cows. Nothing made any sense today. Wildlife, herbage… It was all a distressing blur. She needed a cup of tea.

  ‘Dee udder engagement,’ repeated Signor Marconi patiently.

  ‘Oh, another engagement! Of course.’ Henrietta wasn’t feeling terribly swift at the moment. From the look on Signor Marconi’s face, he shared that opinion. She added anxiously, ‘You will come back next week, though, won’t you?’

  Signor Marconi pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. ‘For your voice, milady, I come-a back.’

  It was nice to know she had something to recommend her.

  A determined click of heels on the parquet floor made her turn. It was her mother, bustling across the room with the attitude of a woman with a mission. She left off her determined beeline towards Henrietta long enough to spare a glance for the music teacher.

  ‘Signor Marconi! Leaving so soon?’

  ‘He has an udder engagement,’ Henrietta informed her mother, who didn’t so much as blink. Something was clearly wrong.<
br />
  Lady Uppington waved a dismissive hand vaguely in Marconi’s direction. ‘Good evening, signor. We’ll expect you next Wednesday. Henrietta, darling, I’ve had dreadful news.’

  Marconi bowed. Neither lady noticed. He bowed again. On the third bow, he gave up, swept his cloak about him, and left.

  ‘Little Caroline and Peregrine have come down with mumps,’ declared Lady Uppington distractedly, flapping the letter in her hand for emphasis. ‘The baby hasn’t caught it yet, but, really, with mumps it’s just a matter of time, and poor Marianne is beside herself.’

  Henrietta emitted noises of distress. Her little nieces and nephew were the most adorable creatures in the history of the world – Caroline three years old, Peregrine two, and the baby just over six months – and they weren’t supposed to get sick. It just wasn’t in the proper scheme of the universe.

  ‘The poor babies!’

  ‘I,’ announced Lady Uppington, tucking a strand of silver-gilt hair into her unusually dishevelled coiffure, ‘am going down to Kent tonight.’ There was a clatter in the hall. ‘Ah, that will be Ned with the trunks.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do? I could come, too, if you think that would help,’ offered Henrietta, trailing behind her mother into the hall.

  ‘The last thing I need is your getting mumps, too. No, no. You’ll stay here. Keep watch over your father. Make sure he eats and doesn’t stay up all night in the library. Cook will come to you with menus in my absence, and if there are any problems with the staff—’

  ‘I can manage,’ Henrietta said tolerantly. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Lady Uppington. ‘Of course, I’ll worry. When you are a mother, then you’ll know what worry is.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be going, Mama?’ Henrietta intervened, before the maternal lecture could gain momentum. ‘Before it gets too dark?’

  She was not entirely successful. Lady Uppington paused in ordering trunks loaded and calling for her cloak – no, not the velvet one, the simple travelling cloak – to look sharply at her youngest child.