Lauren Willig (10 page)

 

 

“What sort of little room did you have in mind?” Mary asked warily.

 

 

“Not a bedchamber, if that was worrying at your conscience.”

 

 

Vaughn had to give her credit; she didn’t flush or affect maidenly flutters. Having determined to do business, Miss Alsworthy was nothing if not direct. “My conscience,” she said levelly, “isn’t the problem. My reputation is.”

 

 

“Not virtue, but the appearance of it,” Vaughn agreed with all seriousness, saving the sting for last. He smiled pleasantly as he added, “One wouldn’t want to risk being compromised…again.”

 

 

Mary’s fingers clenched almost imperceptibly within the folds of her skirts, but there was no sign of it in the perfectly sculpted lines of her face. “I don’t believe you would enjoy the outcome any more than I would.”

 

 

“Touché,” Vaughn acknowledged the point with a fragment of a nod. “Your solution?”

 

 

Mary addressed herself to the fire rather than him, her expression remote. “It would be the last word in foolishness to obtain the means to get a husband only to render myself unmarriageable. In order to prevent that occurrence, I must insist on the presence of a chaperone at all times.”

 

 

“As you are chaperoned now,” murmured Vaughn. “Our presence in this room is in itself highly suspect. Alone. A closed door. Tsk, tsk, Miss Alsworthy.”

 

 

“In my sister’s house.” Mary shrugged. “None of her guests would dare make a fuss. Letty wouldn’t allow it.”

 

 

“And you?” Vaughn braced both hands against the table, closing the distance between them. “You don’t feel the least bit uncomfortable?”

 

 

“In a business discussion?” Mary cast back at him.

 

 

“Business, my dear Miss Alsworthy, is a very broad term. And this”—Vaughn’s voice dropped to a slumberous murmur—”is not a very broad place.”

 

 

Mary stood straight and still, a perfect marble figurine. He might have believed her entirely unaffected, except for the telltale flutter of the pulse at her throat.

 

 

“Are you quite finished, my lord?” she asked coolly.

 

 

It took more strength than he would have liked to pull casually away, to shake out his cuffs with every appearance of unconcern. “For the moment. I have no objection to the notion of a chaperone in principle—as you say, it could be deuced inconvenient to us both otherwise—but you may find yourself in some odd situations.”

 

 

“All the more reason for a chaperone,” countered Mary.

 

 

“Have you one who is blind, deaf, and dumb?” asked Vaughn sarcastically. “Such a one would be perfect for our purposes.”

 

 

Mary’s eyes lit like stained glass. “I believe I might,” she murmured, her mouth quirking with private amusement.

 

 

Vaughn knocked back the remains of his brandy with uncharacteristic haste. Tense and guarded, she was magnificent. Alight with mischief, she was…

 

 

A tool to be used for a limited set of circumstances, he reminded himself, gulping down the astringent brew. And those circumstances did not include his bed, his settee, his carriage, or any other horizontal surface his undisciplined mind might devise.

 

 

Vaughn set his glass down on its tray, locking his hands behind his back as he paced rapidly away from the table. “I leave the procurement of a chaperone to you. At the end of the house party, you will return to London with Lord and Lady Pinchingdale.”

 

 

“I hadn’t heard that they were planning to return to London.”

 

 

“Hadn’t you?” Vaughn shot over his shoulder. A few words from Jane would rapidly put the Pinchingdales’ plans to rights. There were benefits to being associated with the Pink Carnation. “I imagine the new viscountess will wish to avail herself of the shops. If you are lucky, you might even share in the largesse.”

 

 

All animation fled Mary’s face, faster than a ship before a gale. Regarding him with a hauteur that Vaughn found immensely reassuring, she demanded, “Once I return to London, what then?”

 

 

Once in London…Vaughn banished thoughts of beds, lounges, and settees. He tapped a finger lightly against Yorick’s bald skull. “Once in London, we bait our trap.”

 

 

“With me.”

 

 

Vaughn smiled at her in a way that would have sent any sensible bait scurrying for cover. “Precisely.”

 

 

“And if your fish doesn’t bite?”

 

 

“Don’t worry. You will still be paid.”

 

 

This time, Mary didn’t flinch. “In full.”

 

 

“As agreed. You have my hand on it. Or shall we, as our feudal ancestors would, seal it with a kiss?”

 

 

Mary had no doubt that Vaughn would delight in exercising his droit du seigneur. “Your hand will do.”

 

 

The crispness of her tone brought a smile to his narrow lips. Lifting her proffered hand, Vaughn held it suspended for a moment, cool and pale in his own, before very deliberately turning it over and brushing a kiss against the tender skin of her palm.

 

 

What use was fire, after all, if not to be played with?

 

 

With the skill of long practice, Vaughn folded her nerveless fingers around the palm, pressing her hand in his own before releasing her. “There. A doubly sealed bargain.”

 

 

Snatching back her hand, Mary said briskly, “I need no further assurances.” Her skirts whispered secrets against the Turkey carpet as she swept grandly towards the door. “Good night, my lord.”

 

 

It would have been a magnificent exit but for the intransigence of the doorknob. Turning the moment to good account, she glanced regally back over her shoulder as her fingers grappled with the knob. “I look forward to a profitable partnership for us both.”

 

 

Lord Vaughn’s lips spread over his teeth in a decidedly wolfish smile.

 

 

“As do I, my dear. As do I.”

 

 

 

Chapter Five

S
omeone tapped me on the shoulder, sending my pencil skidding clear across the page. Fortunately, it was my notebook page rather than Lord Vaughn’s appointment book. I glanced up irritably, one arm still shielding the page I’d been working on, like a fifth grader in a French exam.

 

 

The man in front of me embodied the essence of officialdom. Despite the fact that it was a Saturday, he wore a sport coat that was just a matching pair of pants short of being a suit. His dark hair was going gray at the temples in a way that might have come out of a packet labeled FOR THAT DISTINGUISHED LOOK. Even his tie fit the image, a conventional deep blue scattered with dozens of tiny shields that undoubtedly ought to have signified the identity of an august institution if I only were properly up on the iconography of the English educational system.

 

 

“I’m sorry to have startled you,” he began. That struck me as a remarkably silly comment, considering that the whole point of tapping someone is to startle them. “I’m Nigel. Nigel Dempster.”

 

 

Ah, the missing archivist. So much for my stern librarian with the pince-nez on her bony bosom.

 

 

“I’m Eloise. Eloise Kelly.” He did seem to be standing there for a reason, so I began haphazardly piling up my papers. “I’m sorry if I’ve overstayed. I wasn’t sure what the hours would be on a Saturday….”

 

 

“No, no, nothing like that.” Dempster held out a soothing hand, which went admirably with the strips of gray in his hair. I relapsed back into my metal chair as he cast an unfavorable look at the now-empty desk at the back of the room. “I only regret that I wasn’t here when you arrived.” His nose twitched like a cat’s whiskers. “I really must apologize for Rob. He is still in the process of being trained.”

 

 

Next, he was going to say that it was so hard to find good help nowadays.

 

 

He didn’t. But I could tell he was thinking it.

 

 

Instead, he tilted his head towards the jumbled mass of documents in the box in front of me. “Rob mentioned to me that you had asked for Sebastian, Lord Vaughn.”

 

 

“Was I not supposed to?” I cast an anguished glance in the direction of the ecru box. The papers hadn’t looked particularly frail, but every institution had its own peculiar rules. It’s all part of the fun of historical research. At the Bodleian, before even letting me near a manuscript, they had made me recite a little pledge that sounded remarkably like the Pledge of Allegiance, only involving not ripping, scarring, immolating, or otherwise violating the documents for which they stood, so help me God. It would be too cruel to have known those papers existed and then have to give them back—or wait endless months for the proper forms and permissions to be processed. I wanted them, and I wanted them now.

 

 

“No, no,” he said, and I began breathing again. “We do have some earlier papers that are in a much worse state. Those we loan out only in microfiche.”

 

 

I nodded knowingly, trying to repress the impulse to grab the box and bolt. “But these are perfectly capable of being handled, right?”

 

 

Instead of answering my question, he surveyed his fiefdom with all the pride of a Norman knight with his very first keep. “This is a new project, you know. The Vaughn Collection’s primary mission has always been the care and preservation of the objets d’art accumulated by the Vaughn family.” He conscientiously rolled the
r
in art.

 

 

“It is a pretty amazing collection up there,” I said, surreptitiously scooting my notebook closer to me, like a stallion at the starting gate. Ready, set…only the blasted man didn’t go.

 

 

Instead, he shook his distinguished head with a practiced look of professional resignation. “The written records, except when needed for matters of provenance, were sadly neglected. When I started here last year, the records room was a shambles.”

 

 

“You’ve done an incredible job,” I lied. Always be polite to archivists. It was one of the first principles my advisor had pounded into me in my first-year research seminar. A little flattery never hurts, either. “The catalogue at the BL isn’t half this accurate.”

 

 

“It isn’t, is it?” If he had been a woman, he would have patted his hair. Being a man, he just preened a bit, touching a hand to his already perfectly straight tie. “We do have a much smaller source base,” he said modestly, showing no inclination to move. “Although several of the Vaughns did keep up a very broad correspondence.”

 

 

“I’m sure they did,” I said glumly. Occasionally, flattery backfired. I braced myself for a lengthy disquisition on the Hon. Miss Arabella Vaughn (1868–1918) and her raptures over the loveliness of the seaside. [N.B. There is no Arabella Vaughn, honorable or otherwise. I just made her up for illustrative purposes. Historians aren’t really supposed to do that, but we always do, anyway.]

 

 

“Sebastian was one of the most prolific,” he added, with a nod towards my work.

 

 

Thank goodness it wasn’t Arabella. “I hadn’t realized you were on first-name terms. I got the impression that Lord Vaughn wasn’t on first-name terms with anyone at all, including himself.”

 

 

That went right over his head. He gave me a hearty smile that stopped just short of being a pat on the head. “One gets a very strong sense of his personality after working with his papers.”

 

 

“That one does,” I agreed, just as heartily. “He’s quite the character.”

 

 

“What brings you to our Sebastian?”

 

 

“I’m doing research for my doctoral dissertation,” I parroted, for what felt like the thousandth time since I had arrived in England. I could do it in my sleep by now. “On espionage during the Napoleonic Wars.”

 

 

“Ah,” said Dempster, smiling at me in an intimate way that made me wonder if my sweater had come unbuttoned. “So you’re also looking for the Pink Carnation.”

 

 

The room was so quiet, you could have heard a jaw drop. Mine, for starters.

 

 

Also? What in the hell did he mean by
also
?

 

 

The Pink Carnation was mine. All mine. There was no also.

 

 

I began to wonder if one could publish before one had anything written. I certainly wasn’t going to allow this, this
archivist
to pip me to the post. My Pink Carnation. Mine, mine, mine.

 

 

“Of course,” I jabbered, doing everything but hug my notebook to my chest, as if the identity of the Pink Carnation might somehow have leaked across the page, “my dissertation is on espionage more broadly. I’m looking at the means and manner of all sorts of different organizations over that twenty-three-year period between 1792 and 1815…. You said
also
?”

 

 

Dempster shrugged, in a nonchalant gesture worthy of Vaughn himself. “My own background is in history of art, but the Pink Carnation has become something of a hobby for me. Working among these papers”—he gestured broadly back towards the muniments room—”it’s very hard not to take an interest. One of history’s great mysteries here, at my disposal.”

 

 

“Of course,” I said, relief oozing out of every pore of my body. It was a pity he hadn’t taken up the Princes in the Tower instead, but as long as his interest was genuinely that of a bored amateur, it was all fine.

 

 

“We might,” he suggested delicately, “even be of use to each other. I might be able to direct you to areas of the Vaughn Collection of interest to you.”

 

 

“Mmm,” I said noncommittally. Considering I already knew who the Pink Carnation was, I would be of far more use to him than he to me. As for keeping it secret, my own skills at subterfuge were what one might tactfully call less than well developed. My sister, Jillian, would say it went with the red hair. Did I mention that Jillian is brunette?