Lauren Willig (7 page)

 

 

“To say the least,” Vaughn agreed calmly. “There’s no need to rush to a decision. Take some time to think about my proposition. Mull it over in the deepest depths of your maidenly bosom. I would, however, advise against unburdening yourself to your friends.”

 

 

Mary nearly smiled at that. Friends. Ha. Her “friends” had been the first to claw her reputation to shreds when word of Geoffrey’s defection exploded through the
ton
. That was one lesson one learned quickly on the bloody battlefield of Almack’s. Confidantes were a luxury a clever woman could ill afford. To confide in others was to invite betrayal.

 

 

Mary lifted her chin. “I keep my own counsel.”

 

 

“A wise choice. Should you accept, your duties will be minimal. There is, of course, the appeal of
patria
to be considered,” Vaughn added as an afterthought. “Rule Britannia and pass the mutton.”

 

 

Vaughn had obviously never tasted mutton. If he had, he wouldn’t joke about it. “How could one help but be swayed by such a rousing appeal?”

 

 

“Spoken like a true and loving daughter of our scepter’d isle.”

 

 

“I can do no better than to model myself on you.”

 

 

“Alas for England.” There was something oddly engaging about the way his mouth twisted up at one corner in self-mockery. “Sharper than serpent’s tooth…There is something else, however, that might quicken your filial piety.”

 

 

“What could possibly move me more than mutton?”

 

 

Beneath their heavy lids, Vaughn’s pale eyes glinted with pleasurable anticipation, like an experienced cardplayer about to lay down a winning hand. “Something we haven’t yet discussed. The small matter of remuneration.”

 

 

Mary schooled her face to stillness, but she wasn’t quick enough. Whatever Vaughn was looking for, he found it. His tone was insufferably smug as he added, “You will be paid. Handsomely.”

 

 

Crossing his arms, he leaned back against a bust of the sixth Baron Pinchingdale and waited for her assent, the silver threads on his cuffs winking insolently in the torchlight.

 

 

He looked so vilely sure of himself—so vilely sure of her! So he thought that was all is would take to get her to say yes, did he? All he needed to do was dangle a few pieces of gold in front of the venal little creature and watch her jump.

 

 

Well, she wasn’t going to jump for him. Not for an unspecified sum, at any rate. He’d have to do rather better than that.

 

 

Striking her most stately attitude, Mary raked her sapphire gaze across Vaughn’s face with royal scorn.

 

 

“An amusing proposition, my lord, but I’m afraid you will simply have to ask elsewhere.” Without waiting for his reaction, she turned on one heel, using the sweep of her long skirt to good effect. “I cannot imagine any recompense you might offer that would be of any interest to me.”

 

 

Basking in self-satisfaction, Mary swished regally down the long corridor, giving Vaughn an excellent view of her elegant back and graceful carriage. Ha! There really was nothing quite like a good exit.

 

 

Except, perhaps, for a good last word. Vaughn’s amused voice snaked after her as she sailed imperiously down the gallery.

 

 

“Can’t you? I can….”

 

 

 

Chapter Three

Alack, when once our grace we have forgot,

 

Nothing goes right; we would and we would not.

 

—William Shakespeare,
Measure for Measure
, IV, iv

M
ary stubbed her toe.

 

 

Fortunately, she managed to turn her stumble into a flounce, using the momentum to propel herself forwards, away from the mocking echo of Vaughn’s voice. Even the architecture appeared to be in league with him. The words bounced off the arched vault of the ceiling, following Mary clear down the length of the corridor.

 

 

He would have to get the last word, wouldn’t he?

 

 

Mary had to admit to a certain grudging admiration for his technique. It had been beautifully done. He had waited until she was just far enough away that she would have had to stop, turn, and screech like a fishwife if she wanted to get a last word in. And what could one possibly reply to “I can”? The only response that came readily to mind was, “Well, I can’t.” Sophisticated stuff, that.

 

 

Scowling, Mary swished beneath the heavily carved arch that marked the end of the gallery. She was sure Vaughn would have enjoyed nothing more than to see her embroiled in a lengthy round of “cannot…can, too,” baiting her on in that languid drawl of his.

 

 

What exactly was “I can” supposed to mean?

 

 

It was one of those hideous phrases that said nothing but implied a good deal. That was the brilliance of it. It left all the insults to the imagination of the hearer, playing on the hidden insecurities the speaker could only guess at. She could only fume and wonder at what he might have meant—when, in fact, he probably meant nothing in particular at all.

 

 

On the other hand, she could certainly imagine recompense that would interest her. And she was sure he could as well. She wondered how much he had been about to offer her. “Handsomely” was such an indeterminate term.

 

 

Whatever the amount might have been, it was a moot point now. Mary’s pace slowed as reason began to return. After her grand exit, she couldn’t very well go back and negotiate. It was a pity she had reacted so hastily. At the time, however, it had seemed far more important to wipe that smug expression off his face than to consider the merits of his offer.

 

 

It wasn’t like her to react so irrationally. So emotionally. Mary made a face at herself as she paused to lean against the balcony overhanging the Great Hall. During her three years in London she had managed to sail unsullied through barbs from her friends, indecent propositions from her admirers, and assorted irritants from her loving family. The trick, she had learned long ago, was simply not to react. Nothing blunted malice—or lust, or jealousy, or anything else—like impassivity. One simply stayed silent and waited for the speaker to start to stumble and stutter.

 

 

One didn’t throw a temper tantrum and sweep out.

 

 

It had been a trying few days, Mary reminded herself, running one gloved finger through the furrow created by an ancient gash in the walnut balustrade. First there had been the long trip from London to Gloucestershire, perched on a lumpy pile of her father’s books, half-smothered by her mother’s shawls, while her mother went into squealing raptures over Letty’s new situation and her father fired off sarcastic comments that went clear over her mother’s head. Once the journey ended, there was the joy of seeing the happy couple together for the first time since the tangled events of July, Letty lording it over them as mistress of Sibley Court and Geoffrey beaming with affection—affection for Letty, not for her.

 

 

And then that strange interlude in the Long Gallery, with the smoke from the torches thick in the air and Lord Vaughn’s breath warm against the back of her neck. For a moment…well, that didn’t matter, did it? None of it had been real.

 

 

Mary lifted her hands to rub her aching temples. In retrospect, the conversation with Vaughn seemed even stranger than it had at the time. Flowers and spies and a flirtation that wasn’t. Had that original seduction scene been a form of test, a way to try her wits and her resolve? Or merely an attempt to throw her off balance?

 

 

If it had been the latter, it had worked.

 

 

Mary peered sideways, towards the entry to the Long Gallery, but the corridor lay as quiet as the crypt. Vaughn wasn’t going to ruin a perfectly good parting line by following her. And it was too late to go back.

 

 

There were half a dozen questions she ought to have asked, and would have asked if she had had her wits about her. She was almost entirely convinced that he had been telling the truth about his odd offer, but there was a great deal that still didn’t make sense. How, for example, was this spy, this Black Tulip, to know that she was available for hire? Any spy who made a practice of propositioning any young lady who fit his aesthetic requirements would not remain in business for long.

 

 

Unless…could it be a double blind? The tale of the Roving Rosebud might have been nothing more than a front, not for seduction but for more treacherous purposes. Closing her eyes, Mary re-created the image of a black jacket, black pantaloons, black cane, all limned with silver. Vaughn’s chosen emblem was a serpent rather than a flower, but a man would have to be an idiot to proclaim his purpose on his sleeve, like that silly boy who had dubbed himself the Purple Pansy and gone off to France with his signature flower splashed right across his waistcoat. The French had jeered over that one for weeks.

 

 

Mary didn’t know terribly much about Vaughn, but she did know that he had spent the past decade on the Continent, reputedly doing all the dreadful and dissipated things one did on the Continent. No one was ever entirely clear about just what those dreadful and dissipated pursuits were, but they appeared to involve large quantities of pasta and loose women. After being whispered from ballroom to ballroom, the stories had gotten rather garbled in translation.

 

 

Dissipation would make an excellent cover for treasonous activities. And she had certainly not displayed an excess of patriotic fervor.

 

 

Pushing away from the balcony, Mary straightened her shawl around her shoulders and permitted herself a resigned sigh. There was nothing for it but to rejoin the others, an activity she looked upon with about as much pleasure as entertaining a personal firing squad. Tentatively, she touched a hand to her hair, checking for flyaway strands. After her meeting with Vaughn, she felt frazzled, disarrayed. But a cursory inspection confirmed that all her ribbons were neatly tied and the three long curls that had taken her maid an hour to arrange still fell gracefully over one shoulder. All frayed edges were entirely internal.

 

 

Reassured that her armor was still sound, Mary walked resolutely to the carved double doors that fronted the Great Chamber, wishing she didn’t feel quite so much like Marie Antoinette ascending the steps to the guillotine. Like so much else, the immense double doors were a sham. Within the massive, carved carapace was one normal-sized door, set into the larger edifice. Easing it open, Mary could hear the cacophony of chatter that marked a successful party, the shrill tones of the dowagers in their corner underpinned by the bass rumble of male conversation.

 

 

The clink of silver against china accented the clatter of voices. In her absence, the supper tray had been brought in. An array of delicacies had been set on a long trestle table at the far end of the room, blackened with age and supported by a series of curiously contorted Titans. One of them was most definitely sticking out its tongue. The scent of richly spiced game warred with the perfumes of the women above a musty undertone of damp tapestry and warped wood. Keeping country hours, they had had their dinner at six, eating in state at the battered old table in the Great Hall below, with Letty at one end and Geoffrey at the other. At least the appearance of the supper tray meant that the hideous evening was almost over.

 

 

Until they were forced to repeat the whole process tomorrow.

 

 

Mary paused to consider her options. The thought of more food rather turned her stomach, but at least a plate gave her an excuse for avoiding conversation. Directly in front of her, Lady Henrietta Dorrington and Lord Richard Selwick’s wife—what was her name again?—were deep in animated chatter. Mary rather doubted they would welcome her company.

 

 

“I never thought it was a wise idea,” declared Lord Richard’s wife, jabbing her fork into a piece of cold game pie. “But you know Jane—”

 

 

“—and her choice in bonnets!” finished Henrietta Dorrington brightly, driving an elbow into her companion’s ribs. “I never understood why she insisted on buying the yellow, when yellow is the one color that doesn’t flatter her complexion. Hello, Miss Alsworthy. Have you had anything to eat yet?”

 

 

Mary had had quite enough humble pie for one day. She had never liked Lady Henrietta, and Lady Henrietta had never liked her.

 

 

“As much as anyone can be expected to stomach,” she said with a smile just as bright as Henrietta’s. “My sister sets an excellent table.”

 

 

Lady Henrietta gave Mary a slightly wary look. “Well, you should really try the braised duck. It’s excellent.” Turning to Amy Selwick, she asked, “Will you and Richard go to Scotland for the shooting?”

 

 

Lord Richard’s wife shook her head, setting her short dark curls bouncing. “No, we’re straight back to Sussex. We plan—” Glancing at Mary, she abruptly broke off. “Um, that is, we have obligations that keep us close to home.”

 

 

Increasing, thought Mary. How dull.

 

 

“You and Miles will come visit, won’t you?” Amy said eagerly, confirming Mary’s diagnosis. “Before Christmas? It would be such a help to us. Jane will be visiting, too.”

 

 

“You know we would like to,” said Lady Henrietta, with a pointed glance over her shoulder, to where their respective husbands propped up opposite ends of the mantelpiece, conspicuously ignoring each other. At least, Lord Richard was conspicuously ignoring Mr. Dorrington. Mr. Dorrington looked a bit like a dog hoping to wiggle his way back after having been booted off the hearth rug. Mary did vaguely recall hearing something about a falling out between the two men, something to do with Lady Henrietta’s marriage, but with Geoffrey’s defection following only a day behind, the domestic dramas of the Selwick clan had been the least of her concerns.