The Masque of the Black Tulip (21 page)

"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 leaped 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 good-bye 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 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 mantle. 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.

* * *

Flattered: under suspicion by the Ministry of Police; subject to intense scrutiny, and possibly attack. See also under Signal Honor. —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 mustache—"I have-a dee udder engagement."

"Dee… ?" Henrietta shook her head to block out visions of cows. Nothing made any sense today. Wildlife, herbiage… 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.

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 disheveled 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 traveling cloak—to look sharply at her youngest child.

"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 whom 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 favorite 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 straighter. 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 memorize 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 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 spelled piece of paper. No blood was going to be spilled. 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.