The Masque of the Black Tulip (22 page)

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 dis-covered, 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 revelers, she could draw Miles off to a secluded alcove for a private meeting.

After all, Henrietta rationalized 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 ?

* * *

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 door frame 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 them 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 recognized 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 recognized 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.

Then there was his trip to the opera this morning. Miles whacked his head with the back of his hand. If Vaughn was in league with Mme Fiorila… well, leaving his card with Mme Fiorila had not been the brightest of ideas. Pity, that. It had seemed such a sensible course of action at the time.

Why did this sort of thing never happen to Richard? Of course, Richard had been captured by the French secret police, which did tend to even the score a bit. That thought made Miles feel better. Almost.

Heedless of escaping stuffing, Miles groaned and flopped down on his mutilated settee. He didn't want to contemplate crazed French spies, he didn't want to contemplate his own mistakes, and he certainly didn't want to contemplate the amount of time it was going to take before his lodgings were livable again. It had been a long, tiring, and—Miles's un-regenerate mind presented him with a tactile reenactment of Henrietta's foot inching up his leg—frustrating day, and all he wanted was to sprawl out on his sofa, imbibe a glass of claret, and vent to Downey. Miles glanced down at the claret-colored stain on his carpet, glinting with the crystal fragments that had once been glasses. Not bloody likely.

Where in the hell was Downey, for that matter? Or Mrs. Migworth, his housekeeper, cook, and maid of all work? True, Mrs. Migworth was slightly deaf, and tended, once her morning rounds of cleaning and tidying were done, not to leave her domain in the kitchen, but one would think someone would have noticed the odd whirlwind flashing through the flat.

Miles heaved himself off the sofa, shedding little tufts of horsehair as he dragged himself upright. Grinding glass into the carpet as he went—the carpet was going to have to be thrown out, anyway, so he might as well get the satisfaction of making loud, crackling noises— Miles stomped off in search of his staff.

"Downey!" he shouted. "Where in the blazes are you?"

There was no answer.

Miles stalked off into the dining parlor, noting grimly the silver that had been upended on the sideboard, and the pictures that had been torn off the wall.

"Downey!" Miles roared. "Where are you, man?"

Of all the times for his valet to take an unauthorized afternoon off! Miles came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, scowling at the smashed pile of fragments that had once been his dinner service.

That's when he heard it. A low moan, little more than an exhalation of air. Miles whirled, seeking the source of the sound.

"Hello?" Miles said sharply. It might have been nothing more than a draft of air from an open window, or a mouse in the skirting board—though Miles didn't think mice sighed. No, this sound had been human in origin. Miles's eyes rifled across the room, darting past the table, over several chairs… and under the sideboard, which boasted, in addition to its own four legs, a black-shod foot protruding where no foot ought to be.

Miles flung himself to his knees on the parquet floor. There lay Downey, sprawled facedown beneath the sideboard, a dark stain marring the back of his coat.

"Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell," muttered Miles. "Downey? Downey, can you hear me?"

Another faint moan emerged from the valet's crumpled form. "It's going to be all right," Miles said with more determination than he felt. Yanking the cravat from around his throat—Downey, after ail, was in no state to protest—he fashioned a rough dressing over the hole in Downey's back. From the way the blood was caked on Downey's coat, the wound appeared to have mostly stopped bleeding, but moving him would undoubtedly open it again. He must have been lying there for some time.

Being as gentle as he could, Miles eased Downey out from under the sideboard, eliciting another wordless moan.

"Sorry, old boy," Miles muttered. "It'll just be a moment, I promise…"

"Thieves," croaked Downey, in a barely audible whisper.

"Shhh," said Miles, feeling like one of the world's lowest sort of crawling creatures. "Don't try to talk."

"Couldn't… stop…"

"No one could have done more," Miles reassured him, his voice rough with remorse. "You just lie here, while I—"

"Couldn't… see…"

"Don't say another word. I'm going to get a surgeon. You just stay here."

Not giving his fallen valet time to object, Miles raced through his chaotic sitting room, vaulted over the table blocking the doorway, and took the stairs three at a time. Storming into the street, he collared a young boy he recognized as a page from the neighboring establishment. "Go to the nearest surgeon and tell him to come here at once—at once, do you hear?"

The boy shrunk away, eyeing Miles's bloodstained hands with pop-eyed alarm.

Miles dug in his waistcoat and yanked out a silver crown. "Here."

He slapped it into the boy's palm. "There'll be another for you if you're back here within the next ten minutes."

"Yes, sir! Yes, indeed, sir!" The boy set off running.

Within half an hour, Downey had been moved to the settee—a liberty he would have protested had he not been unconscious at the time— examined, and pronounced very lucky to be yet among the living.

"An inch lower," pronounced the surgeon grimly, "and your man would have been skewered straight through the heart."

Several hours and two glasses of brandy later (the brandy having been consumed mostly by Miles), Downey was propped up on pillows, partaking of hot broth, and being fussed over by Mrs. Migworth.

"Not but what if I'd known, I wouldn't have gone to market this day," said Mrs. Migworth for the tenth time, shaking her graying head. "It's that sorry I am, Mr. Downey."

"That makes two of us," muttered Miles, pacing the ruined carpet. "Downey, I can't tell you how sorry I am that this has happened."

Downey looked as gratified as a man swathed in bandages with a spoon stuck in his mouth can contrive to look.

"It's… no matter… sir." Downey suddenly started up in alarm, sending Mrs. Migworth into a whole new agony of fussing and pillow-fluffing. "Sir! Her ladyship…Lady Uppington… left a message."

"Calm yourself, Downey." Miles perched himself on an only slightly slashed chair. "It can't be that important."

"But her ladyship said… the masquerade…"

"Oh, no. I'm staying right here with you. I don't care if the Prince of Wales himself is throwing it, I—oh. Oh, no." Miles uttered a word that made Mrs. Migworth bristle with disapproval.

Miles didn't notice. Miles didn't care. Miles was staring off into space with a fixed look of horror in the manner of Hamlet being confronted with his father's ghost. Only this was far, far worse than any number of spirits from beyond the grave. The masquerade was being hosted by Lord Vaughn, held at Lord Vaughn's townhouse, entirely under Lord Vaughn's control and direction.

Hen was there. With Vaughn. In Vaughn's house.

Everyone would be masked, the more fantastical the costume the better. The ton, safely disguised behind feathery masks and elaborate wigs, would have seized the opportunity to indulge in a bit of licentious revel. Champagne would flow, sharpening voices and numbing wits. In the midst of them all would be Henrietta, meandering innocently along like a lamb among wolves. How hard would it be to yank her away, out of the throng of partygoers? Vaughn could slip a drug into her drink; he could back her into a dark corner; he could even sweep her up and toss her over his shoulder and anyone who saw would simply assume it was all part of the fun, a bit of playacting to enliven the evening.