Lauren Willig (37 page)

 

 

“A liar, a cheater, and a cad?” Mary suggested. “A shameless seducer? A remorseless reprobate?”

 

 

“Nothing more than a clever front. An effective one, I’ll grant you, but not effective enough to fool me.” There was no mistaking the note of self-congratulation in the Black Tulip’s voice. “Vaughn overplayed his hand in Ireland. No one but he could have gotten that information from the Marquise. And no one but the Pink Carnation could have used it.

 

 

“I have certain plans,” continued the Black Tulip softly, “that are about to come to fruition. I cannot afford any interference from jumped-up floral arrangements.”

 

 

“Plans?” inquired Mary innocently.

 

 

“Kill Lord Vaughn,” said the Black Tulip, “and then you can be privy to my plans. Not before.”

 

 

“Do I have any guarantee that you’ll include me in your counsels once I kill Lord Vaughn?” demanded Mary daringly. “Or will you kill me, too, once I’ve rid you of your nuisance?”

 

 

“I don’t deal in guarantees, Miss Alsworthy. If you want a guarantee, speak to a merchant. I will tell you this, though. The Pink Carnation is not part of my plans.”

 

 

Mary noticed he had made no promises regarding her own mortality.

 

 

“Surely,” she suggested, with one eye on the pistol, “you would do better to let Lord Vaughn lead you to the Pink Carnation. To kill off an accomplice might be satisfying, but wouldn’t you rather pluck the entire flower?”

 

 

The Black Tulip’s free hand twined in heavy loop of hair beneath her bonnet and tugged, hard, forcing her head back at an unnatural angle. “Do not attempt to play me for a fool, Miss Alsworthy.”

 

 

The sharp tilt of her throat made it hard to speak. “I—don’t—see—what’s—so foolish,” Mary rasped. “Wouldn’t you rather the real spy?”

 

 

The pressure of the roots of her hair increased, pressing back until spots swam in front of her eyes from the pain. Then the Black Tulip released her so abruptly that her head snapped back, leaving her gasping hopelessly for breath, with one hand at her throat.

 

 

“You really don’t know, do you?” There was a distinctly unpleasant quality to the Black Tulip’s laughter.

 

 

“Know what?” she gasped, rubbing her throat. When she saw to the Black Tulip’s downfall, she was going to make sure it was a painful one.

 

 

“Vaughn has played
you
for a fool, Miss Alsworthy.”

 

 

That wasn’t precisely news, but Mary suspected that the Black Tulip wasn’t talking about Vaughn’s matrimonial status.

 

 

“You don’t mean to imply—”

 

 

He did mean. “Would Vaughn be anyone’s accomplice other than his own?”

 

 

“I don’t believe it,” said Mary stubbornly, despite the fact that she had once voiced a similar objection to Vaughn herself. “Vaughn is not the stuff of which selfless heroes are made.”

 

 

“Consider well, Miss Alsworthy. Vaughn’s prolonged absences from England. His recent trips to Paris. His interference with
my
agents. And, of course, your charming self. Now tell me that Vaughn is acting for another.”

 

 

For a moment, Mary almost wondered if he might be right. If Vaughn had lied to her about so crucial an item as a living wife, why not about other things as well? It would be an excellent cover for a spy to pose as his own accomplice. But try as she might, she couldn’t make the identification stick. It was impossible to imagine Vaughn adopting a flowery sobriequet. If he had, it would have been something exotic and absurd, like the Crimson Chrysanthemum or the Remorseless Rhododendron. Not a humble flower like a pink carnation.

 

 

“I can’t possibly think of a worse candidate for Pink Carnation,” Mary protested. “Vaughn isn’t the least bit patriotic. What about his revolutionary friends? His connections with the Common Sense Society?”

 

 

“Nothing but a sham. Don’t you know your history, girl? The Vaughns have been in bed with the House of Hanover since the day the first German George hoisted himself onto the throne of England. Vaughn’s grandfather slaughtered Scots at Culloden for the second George and his father served as advisor to the third.” The Black Tulip’s gloved hand tightened on her arm, leaving dents that would undoubtedly turn into bruises. “In return, they’ve received anything they could desire. Honors, titles, monopolies, concessions. Don’t think your Vaughn isn’t well aware of what he owes to the Crown.”

 

 

“He isn’t my Vaughn.”

 

 

“Not for want of trying, is it?” asked the Black Tulip, in a way that made her want to jab the parasol into his toe then and there. His breath feathered against her hair as he leaned forward confidingly. “He has a wife, you know.”

 

 

Oh, how she knew. But that little detail faded to triviality next to the magnitude of the Black Tulip’s threats.

 

 

“Sooner or later, he will take her back. And then where will you be? Used and abandoned. One of a hundred forgotten conquests. Our interests coincide, Miss Alsworthy. I am offering you the ideal opportunity for revenge. Those don’t come along every day.”

 

 

Mary made a show of pretending to consider. “You do make an excellent point. If you give me some time, I’m sure I can think of a perfectly smashing plan for disposing of our mutual adversary. I want to make it something painful. And slow.”

 

 

“You’ll have to settle for painful.”

 

 

The Black Tulip gestured with the pistol, the sunlight glinting dully off the thin iron barrel. Mary instinctively pulled away, but the Black Tulip had another target in mind. The point of the pistol settled, with all the finality of a lowered spear, on the figure of a man making his way alone through the litter of the abandoned stalls. His high crowned hat cast his face into shade, but there could be no doubt he was looking for someone, as he stalked through the debris, craning his head first one way, then the other, his lips pressed together in a tight line of annoyance. His normally immaculate cravat was askew and his urbane stroll had been abandoned in favor of a brisk stride.

 

 

His wife was nowhere to be seen.

 

 

Mary’s heart tightened as she watched him stalk from one stall to the next, using his cane to wrench aside the bunting, struggling with a fierce and entirely inexplicable wave of protectiveness. She wanted to straighten his wretched cravat and smooth out the worried lines beside his lips and hustle him away to someplace where inconvenient wives and homicidal spies could never find them.

 

 

He couldn’t look that awful and not have meant what he had said before. Wife or no wife.

 

 

The problem was keeping him alive long enough to find out.

 

 

“There he is,” said the Black Tulip, in a voice rich with satisfaction. “Looking for you.”

 

 

“Looking for his wife, you mean,” Mary said acidly, in an attempt to play for time.

 

 

The Black Tulip refused to be diverted. Mary found the stock of the pistol pressed into her palm. When she would have taken it from him, the Black Tulip’s hand closed around hers.

 

 

“Put your hand here, on the stock. Yes, just so.” The movements of his fingers mirrored hers, keeping her hand carefully in place. “It fits itself nicely to your hand, doesn’t it?”

 

 

“Oh, beautifully,” Mary simpered, wondering when he would take his hand away from hers. One step, one pivot, that was all it would take, if only he would let go.

 

 

But the Black Tulip showed no sign of relinquishing his position. It was his hand that raised the pistol, his other arm that came around her to brace it, holding her pinned in the pincers of his arms.

 

 

“You have baited your trap very nicely, Miss Alsworthy,” he murmured approvingly. “Now it is time for the kill. All you need to do is point the pistol and shoot.”

 

 

Pressing against the force of his arm, Mary forced the barrel of the pistol downwards, away from Vaughn. “As gratifying as it would be to slaughter the conniving cad right now, it does occur to me that poison would be a better choice. With all the claret Lord Vaughn drinks, it would be the work of a moment to drop something into his glass. I could do it tonight. Think of the fine pedigree of poisoning. So much more tasteful than guns. Guns are so…crude, don’t you agree?”

 

 

The tip of the pistol slowly rose again, pointing at the unsuspecting figure of Lord Vaughn. “You wanted to prove yourself to me, Miss Alsworthy. All you need to do is level and shoot. It’s as easy as that.”

 

 

Mary struggled to angle the barrel back down. “A pistol shot is so loud,
mon seigneur
. You wouldn’t want to draw attention to yourself like that, would you? After all, you have so much of your great work still to accomplish. Bonaparte wouldn’t know what to do with himself without you.”

 

 

“If you won’t do it—” The Black Tulip’s hand tightened over hers, gluing her fingers to the stock of the pistol.

 

 

“It’s not that I won’t,” Mary amended hastily, wrestling him for control of the pistol. “But shouldn’t we just strategize a bit first? Methods and all that? You know what they say. Shoot in haste, repent at leisure….”

 

 

“—then I shall just have to do it myself.”

 

 

Without any further ado, the Black Tulip wrenched their joined hands into position, leveling the pistol at Lord Vaughn’s unprotected back with the casual aim of a master marksman.

 

 

“Adieu, Lord Vaughn. Or should I say the Pink Carnation?”

 

 

In a single, brutal movement, the Black Tulip pressed her finger down against the trigger. Mary’s elbow jerked ineffectually back, but the Tulip’s grip was too strong to dislodge.

 

 

The force of the recoil kicked Mary straight in the shoulder, knocking her back against the Black Tulip. The arms holding her abruptly disengaged, and Mary went stumbling sideways, tripping over a long hem.

 

 

Mary didn’t pause to pursue the Black Tulip; her one concern was Vaughn. Coughing, eyes watering from the acrid black smoke, Mary fought her way free of the bunting, just in time to see Vaughn fall heavily from his knees to his elbows and from there to the ground.

 

 

Next to him, Vaughn’s cane rolled once, then twice before sliding to a rest in the trampled brown grass.

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

…from morn

 

To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,

 

A summer’s day, and with the setting sun

 

Dropt from the zenith, like a falling star.

 

—John Milton,
Paradise Lost
, I

“V
aughn?” Mary skidded across the muddy field. “Vaughn?”

 

 

Vaughn’s hands were splayed on the ground on either side of him. His only response was a low groan. He made an effort to move, his shoulder muscles bunching beneath the fabric of his jacket. Squirming sideways, he attempted to lever himself up, moving only inches before his arms gave way again. A wet trail marked his path, glistening burgundy against the faded grass.

 

 

Dropping to her knees on the ground next to him, Mary stripped off her gloves. Wadding up the leather, she pressed it hard against the hole in his back. The makeshift bandage did little good. Despite the tear in the back of his coat, the blood seemed to be seeping from beneath him, wetting her knees through her dress as she knelt beside him.

 

 

Seeing her, Vaughn tried again to hoist himself up onto one arm.

 

 

“Don’t,” Mary said harshly, grappling to keep her grip on the wad of leather, slimy with blood. “You’ll only hurt yourself more.”

 

 

Vaughn’s clouded eyes shifted across her face. “Didn’t mean—” he managed to force out between cracked lips. “Never wanted—”

 

 

“I know,” Mary said quickly. “I do. Don’t fret yourself.”

 

 

Vaughn’s eyes shifted downwards, taking in the dark stains, the steadily spreading puddle of blood. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a parody of his old smile. But before he could say anything sarcastic, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he went still.

 

 

Holding the wadded gloves hard against his back, Mary hunkered down beside him, bending her ear to his lips, listening anxiously for the sounds of life. His breath brushed her cheek, and she could have cried with relief. He was only unconscious, not—Mary’s mind shied away from other possibilities.

 

 

But he was still losing blood, the precious fluid seeping into the ground at her knees. Without loosing her grip on the sodden gloves, Mary used her other hand to ease his left arm upwards, tilting him to the side. And there it was, a matching wound on the other side, just below the arm, tearing through shirt, waistcoat, coat. The fabric was so sodden, it was hard to tell exactly where the damage was.

 

 

Vaughn’s cravat would make the best bandage, but the intricate knot defied deconstruction, especially with only one hand. Inspired by desperation, Mary emptied out the contents of her reticule, sending coins spinning dizzily in the dirt. Wadding up the soft fabric, she stuffed it beneath the wet patch on his chest, letting the weight of Vaughn’s body do the rest.

 

 

It wasn’t enough, though. She needed something to hold both pads in place. Mary let go for just a moment, and the sodden gloves on his back slid slowly sideways. Lurching forwards, Mary pressed them back into place. With her right hand occupied, she wriggled out of her spencer, wishing that fashion had called for slightly looser garments this season. One-handed, clumsy with haste and fear, she folded the back of the jacket over to make a thick pad. Holding the sodden wadding on his back in place with her elbow, she painfully scooted one arm of the spencer beneath him, leaning across him to yank it out the other side, the bloody gloves pressing against her breast. Edging back, she positioned the folded portion so that it would cover both sides of his wound, holding the already blood-soaked padding in place.