The Masque of the Black Tulip Page 18

  ‘About the masquerade tonight,’ Lady Uppington began ominously.

  Henrietta waited. She knew her mother would have liked to forbid her to go to any event hosted by Lord Vaughn, but to do so would go against Lady Uppington’s most strongly held Principles of Mothering. Henrietta had heard them all often enough to know all of the main ones by heart. High on the list was Thou Shalt Not Forbid, since, as Lady Uppington was fond of pointing out, if Lady Capulet had only been sensible, and not forbidden Juliet to see that Romeo boy, Juliet probably would have married Count Paris and borne lots of darling little grandchildren instead of dying hideously in the family crypt.

  Henrietta had used that theory several times to her advantage.

  She could tell her mother had just replayed the Lady Capulet cautionary tale in her head, because Lady Uppington said sternly, in the tone of one who wanted to be saying more, ‘Be sure to stay close to the Dowager Duchess.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘Don’t wander away from the ballroom, or go into the garden, or let yourself be drawn into any dark alcoves.’

  ‘I know, Mama. We’ve been through all this before. Remember? Before my first party.’

  ‘Some things don’t stale with repetition, darling. Miles will be there to keep an eye on you…’

  Henrietta thought of the departing pair in the carriage. ‘Who’ll be keeping an eye on Miles?’

  ‘The duchess,’ replied Lady Uppington promptly.

  ‘The duchess?’ repeated Henrietta. Hmm, now there was an image. A little wisp of a smile curled around Henrietta’s lips as she imagined setting the duchess on the marquise. There was no doubt as to who would emerge victorious.

  ‘Yes. I’ve sent a note to her telling her she’s to take you with her and Charlotte tonight, and I’ve sent a note to Miles warning him to be on time, and I sent another message to the duchess to send to Miles to make sure he doesn’t forget.’

  Henrietta’s head reeled under the profusion of notes.

  ‘Good night, darling.’ Lady Uppington kissed her quickly on both cheeks. ‘Be good, and don’t let your father tire himself writing speeches all night.’

  Henrietta trailed along after her mother towards the door. ‘Give my love to the little ones… Tell Caro that I have a present for her if she gets well quickly, and tell Peregrine that he’s the bravest outlaw in the forest, and give the baby an extra kiss for me. Are you sure you don’t want me to come along?’

  The door had no sooner closed behind Lady Uppington than Winthrop sidled up, a silver tray in his hands.

  ‘Yes, Winthrop?’

  ‘Your post, my lady.’ Winthrop bowed, extending the tray.

  Despite sore feet, sore head, and a sore heart, Henrietta felt a little flicker of excitement as she took the three letters from the tray. After arranging for a pot of tea and some biscuits to be brought to her, she took her booty to the morning room, collapsed on her favourite settee, and prepared to examine her spoils.

  The first was a brief note from her sister-in-law Marianne. The children had mumps, but the doctor said it wasn’t a bad case, the baby seemed fine, and Henrietta wasn’t, under any circumstances, to allow Lady Uppington to go haring off to Kent.

  Ooops. Too late.

  Henrietta put the note to the side, resolving to write Marianne a quick letter of apology before she dressed for the masquerade tonight.

  The second letter was from Amy. And it was thick. Henrietta tore open the seal with a surge of anticipation. That had been fast; Amy must have sat down with her quill and a stack of paper as soon as she received Henrietta’s note. Settling back against the settee, Henrietta skimmed rapidly. Amy was delighted, wished she could help in person, was overjoyed to offer her expertise, blah, blah, blah. Ah, the good bit! Henrietta sat up straighten Amy had jammed in four closely written pages of advice. Some, Henrietta took mental note of, such as the tips regarding ways to bind one’s breasts without experiencing excruciating pain, and how to listen at a keyhole without being squashed if the door opened unexpectedly. Others, such as the suggestion that she burgle the War Office at dead of night in case they had extra information, Henrietta discarded out of hand. Spying on one’s own side just seemed so…unpatriotic. And no one could accuse Henrietta of lack of patriotic zeal. She knew all seven verses of ‘Rule Britannia’ by heart, even the obscure ones about Muses still with freedom found and manly hearts to guard the fair.

  Henrietta put Amy’s bulky letter aside for further perusal later. There were some bits that required deeper scrutiny. The diagrams on lock-picking, for example, were not the sort of things one could memorise in just one viewing.

  Even better, in a cramped postscript jammed onto the very bottom of the very last page, Amy had added an invitation. A week hence, she and Richard were having several people to stay for an intensive training session. The brilliance of it was, wrote Amy blithely, that it would look to be no more than a simple country house weekend. If anyone asked, there would be all the usual entertainments: hunting and fishing for the men, a jaunt to a nearby Norman ruin for the women, and a trip to the village shops. In actuality, they would be learning the subtleties of disguise, the art of eavesdropping, and several other thrilling things. Though Henrietta could still go to the shops if she liked.

  Henrietta smiled to herself as she reached for the next letter. It was all so like Amy. And quite, quite perfect. Her mother would never object to her spending a weekend with Richard, ‘chaperoned’ by Amy. She wondered whether Miles would be present. As Richard’s best friend, one would think he would be… Henrietta ruthlessly dragged herself away from the dangerous realm of daydream, and hastily broke open the lumpy seal on the final letter.

  The last letter was from Jane.

  Henrietta peered at the familiar signature, held it out at arm’s length, frowned a bit, and stared at the signature again. It was still from Jane.

  Henrietta regarded the battered piece of paper in some confusion. There was no way at all, even with fleet horses and favourable winds, that Jane could have received her own letter and penned a reply already. Henrietta’s own epistle had been nothing to excite so speedy a response even if it were possible; she had reassured her that Uncle Archibald had been informed of the presence of the new horrid novel and was sure to snap it up as soon as he could locate a proper bookshop. The rest of the letter had been filled with trivialities, such as her conversation with Lord Vaughn, Miles’s unprecedented attentions to the marquise, and the Dowager Duchess harrowing Percy Ponsonby out a second-story window.

  Jane’s missive was more a note than a letter. Her tiny, precise writing filled less than half the folded sheet. It was, Jane wrote, just a quick message to her dearest cousin, to let her know that she had attended yet another Venetian breakfast that morning and a gentleman unknown to her had asked after both Henrietta and Mr Dorrington. She believed this gentleman must know them both through Henrietta’s darling brother, but had been unable to ask. Surely, Henrietta must feel this signal honour, and would be accordingly flattered.

  Henrietta sat very still, edging around the ramifications of Jane’s brief note. She should, she supposed, go upstairs to her room and fetch the codebook and make sure of the contents. But she had a dreadful suspicion she already knew what it meant. Jane had gone on another late-night raid to the Ministry of Police. There she had found that someone had ordered enquiries into the movements of both Henrietta and Miles, most likely due to their proximity to Richard. Blast. What other interpretation could there be?

  Henrietta moved slowly to the escritoire, releasing the lid with a dull thump. The papers Signor Marconi had dropped were still scattered about in disarray, but Henrietta didn’t bother to sort through them. Henrietta reached for a clean sheet of paper, her inkpot, and a quill, to write…what?

  There were too many questions teeming through her mind. If she and Miles were under scrutiny, what about Geoff? The Ministry of Police most likely already had a file on him, based on his long sojourn in France with Richa
rd. There were also her parents to be considered. They had all visited Richard in Paris in April, just before his capture and speedy escape. Her mother, in fact, had played a key role in springing Richard from the dungeons of the Ministry.

  Then there were the even more important questions, such as why the Ministry had suddenly developed an interest in them. Henrietta tapped the dry quill against the blotter. She supposed it made a certain amount of sense for them to track down the connections of the former Purple Gentian. While the Gentian himself might now be permanently out of the spying business, thanks to the dramatic revelation of his identity (not to mention marriage and the prospect of small children), it stood to reason that the disbanded members of his League might continue in their fight against France. And the most logical way to smoke out those members was to investigate those closest to Richard. She and Miles were both closer to Richard than pretty much anyone – well, in her case, one had to be when one lived in the same house for all those years – and they had both been in France within the past month. To a paranoid French agent, a description that neatly summed up Gaston Delaroche, those facts might add up to something very sinister indeed.

  Something cracked. Looking down, Henrietta realised she had pressed so hard against the quill that the nib had fractured.

  Henrietta put the quill down. There was no point in writing to Jane, begging for answers, when she wasn’t even sure what she wanted to ask. The logical person to speak to just now was Miles. He needed to be warned.

  The danger to herself, Henrietta discounted. She wasn’t sure why her name had popped up in the pending files of the Ministry of Police, but she was fairly certain they wouldn’t scrutinise her too closely. Bonaparte was notorious for underestimating women – it was one of the reasons Jane’s plans had succeeded quite so spectacularly – and, aside from her current employment, Henrietta had never played any role in the hostilities against France other than the passive one of pesky younger sister to the Purple Gentian. If they investigated her actions, all they would find was a list of books borrowed from the lending library, five refused offers of marriage, two volatile voice teachers, and an inordinate number of ribbon purchases.

  Henrietta dipped her broken pen absentmindedly in the ink, pulling the sheet of paper towards her.

  Miles, on the other hand, was the perfect target. His work with the War Office, while certainly not bandied about town, was no secret – how could it be, with Miles openly going there at intervals for the past several years? His connection with Richard was also common knowledge. If the Ministry of Police were looking to eliminate those who might prove a danger to Bonaparte’s ambition… Henrietta looked down to see a spreading pool of brownish ink on the formerly pristine piece of paper. In the dim light, it looked like blood.

  For goodness’ sake! Henrietta crumpled the spoilt piece of paper. No blood was going to be spilt. Miles should be warned, but not by note. It wasn’t the sort of thing one wanted falling into the wrong hands, and she and Miles had no code. A thousand private witticisms and shared memories, but no secret cipher.

  She could go to his lodgings. Henrietta cocked her head and grimaced. Blast, this was the problem with knowing oneself too well. She knew that her main motive for wanting to go to Miles’s lodgings wasn’t to warn him of potential danger; it was to make sure that he was home. Alone.

  Henrietta took a deep breath, and shoved back her chair. Right. She wasn’t going to stoop to that. Yes, she knew she had said that about the hiding-behind-the-hedge plan, too, but this time she meant it. She was making a new resolution: no more skulking about. Except in the interest of England, of course. But when it came to Miles, they had been friends too long to play those sorts of games. If she wanted to know the nature of his relationship with the marquise, she would ask him straight out, not pop into his lodgings at strange hours like the jealous husband in a French farce.

  Besides, from a strategic point of view it was a dreadful idea. Aside from all the nasty things it could do to her reputation if she were discovered, if she and Miles were being watched by French agents, her slipping hooded into his apartments would only convince the secret police that they had something to hide, thus increasing the danger of Miles being shot, stabbed, or otherwise permanently maimed.

  Miles would have to be warned, but she would do it in person, tonight. It was well past seven already, and he was under orders from two of the most fearsome matriarchs in Britain to put in an appearance at Lord Vaughn’s masquerade no later than ten o’clock tonight. The masquerade would provide the perfect setting for a clandestine meeting; among the masked and tipsy revellers, she could draw Miles off to a secluded alcove for a private meeting.

  After all, Henrietta rationalised to herself gleefully, her mother’s stricture about disappearing into alcoves couldn’t possibly apply to Miles, since Miles was the one who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her.

  Yes, Henrietta decided, shutting the lid of the escritoire with a definitive click, her conversation with Miles would have to wait until tonight.

  What could possibly happen between now and ten o’clock?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Carousing: engaged in a mortal struggle with Bonaparte’s minions

  – from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation

  Miles didn’t remember leaving his sitting room such a mess.

  He didn’t remember flinging his books across the room, he didn’t remember yanking down his drapes down off their rods, and he certainly didn’t remember slashing open the seat of his settee.

  ‘What in the hell’ exclaimed Miles.

  Miles had to grab hold of the doorframe to keep from tumbling over a small table that had been upended right in front of the door. In front of him, chaos reigned. Tables lay on their sides, paintings hung crookedly on their pegs, and a broken decanter of claret leaked its contents into the warp of the Axminster carpet. Dash it all, he had liked that decanter. He’d been pretty fond of its contents, too, before they’d soaked into the rug. Porcelain fragments from a broken urn dappled the floor, warring for space with tumbled books and crumpled bits of paper. The fabric covering his settee and the two matching chairs hung in tatters from their gilded wooden frames.

  Miles took a cautious step over the fallen table and heard shards crunch beneath the heels of his boots. Leaning over, he picked up a book, automatically smoothing the pages. The other contents of his bookshelves also occupied the floor, lying at odd angles throughout the room, some flat on their backs, others bent open, as though someone had flung them out of the bookshelf one by one. Crunching his way across the room, Miles stuck Livy’s Commentaries back on the empty shelves, where, of course, it promptly toppled over onto its side for lack of companions.

  This was absurd! Unspeakable! A man left his lodgings for, what, five hours at most – no, more than that. He had gone out at eleven to badger Geoff, lunched at his club, toddled over to the opera to question Mme. Fiorila, browsed among the boots at Hoby’s, shot at targets at Manton’s, and finally driven along to the marquise’s townhouse on Upper Brook Street to take her driving, cooling his heels in her drawing room until she had finally condescended to emerge, perfumed, powdered, and pouting. Still, even an eight-hour absence didn’t justify the complete and utter destruction of a man’s abode.

  Clutching his head, Miles stared out across the room. Who would have done such a thing? This was clearly not the work of a band of thieves, since as far as Miles could tell from the drawing room, nothing had been taken. A valuable silver snuffbox lay in plain view next to one of the upended tables, too tempting a plum to be left by anyone with a quick profit on the agenda. Besides, what thieves in their right mind would expend that much energy in destruction when their best hope of success lay in grabbing and running?

  Crazed vandals? Escaped Bedlamites? An angry ex-mistress?

  Miles froze guiltily. No. Surely even Catalina wouldn’t…well, he wouldn’t be quite so sure about that. Flinging things about for the sheer fun of watching th
em go smash was very much Catalina’s style, but doing it in private wasn’t. Catalina liked an audience. She only smashed crockery when there was someone to smash it at. Then there was the added fact that Catalina, experienced courtesan that she was, hadn’t shown any signs of tearing rage or towering passion at their parting. She had clung to his leg a bit, flung her arms about, and expostulated in Italian, but the tears in her eyes had been rapidly replaced by a greedy gleam when Miles had presented her with a farewell parure of diamonds and rubies. Miles decided he could safely rule out his ex-mistress. Which only left a far more disturbing possibility. The French.

  Damn.

  The condition of the room made no sense for thieves, but perfect sense for someone who was searching for something – and lost their temper when the search proved fruitless. They really hadn’t missed a spot, had they? His books had been rifled, his furniture slashed through; even the bookshelves had been moved away from the wall and the paintings shoved aside in case of secret caches behind. Miles didn’t even want to know what his bedroom must look like.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Somehow, he must have alerted this new band of operatives that he was on to them. Miles couldn’t think of any other reason for Bonaparte’s minions to be reducing his lodgings to a shambles. What were they looking for? An unfinished dispatch, perhaps? If they – Miles was beginning to severely dislike that pronoun – were desperate enough to tear apart his home, he must have stumbled onto something important, something they didn’t want him to find.

  Vaughn. A grim satisfaction pervaded Miles’s weary frame. Ha! It had to be Vaughn. He must have been recognised leaving Vaughn’s house last night. Could one of Vaughn’s henchmen have seen him strolling out of Belliston Square, trying to look like a man who’d just had a bit too much to imbibe, and put two and two together? It might equally well have been that, despite his ridiculous costume, he’d been recognised by his attacker in Vaughn’s bedchamber. Or…some of Miles’s satisfaction began to fade as he considered the number of times he might possibly have revealed his identity to his adversaries. Or he might have been spotted at the Duke’s Knees that night. True, Vaughn had given no sign of recognition, but an experienced spy wouldn’t, would he?