The Masque of the Black Tulip (31 page)

On the far side of the room, the draperies swayed in a way that suggested the open window had recently been put to good use.

Blast.

Henrietta dashed to the window, but the intruder had disappeared as thoroughly as though he had been the phantom he impersonated. Under the impartial moon, the park was silent and empty. The Phantom Monk had had plenty of time to make his escape while she grappled with Richard's desk.

Henrietta scowled at herself, She really wasn't making a terribly good showing as an intrepid spy, was she? Of course, she still thought that if it hadn't been for those two loud, raucous men, she could have taken the intruder by surprise.

Henrietta realized she was still holding the heavy silver candlestick and set it down on Richard's desk with a disgruntled thump. Blasted noisy interfering men, Addlepated great galumphing creatures. True, they made good dance partners—when they remembered to turn up for their assigned dance, that was, and didn't clomp on her foot like a dinosaur with a direction problem—but other than that, the Amazons had it right. They were more trouble than they were worth, and when it came down to it, she could bloody well dance with Penelope.

A heavy footfall in the door made Henrietta jump; she whirled to face the door, the desk at her back. The glare momentarily blinded Henrietta, so all she could see was a nimbus of light in the darkness.

For heaven's sake! One Phantom Monk was enough for any night; she didn't need more supernatural apparitions. Henrietta blinked irritably and the light resolved itself back into a candle flame.

"Who's there?" she demanded. "Hen?" replied a startled masculine voice.

"Oh," she said flatly, as Miles stepped into the room. Reminding herself of the Amazons, she lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of his candle. "It's you."

Miles looked quizzically around the dark room. "What are you doing in here, in the dark ?"

"Nothing you would care to know about." Henrietta stomped towards the door before she gave in to the urge to use the candlestick on him. That would be just how she wanted to end the day—explaining to Richard and Amy how she had come to give Miles a concussion. "Good night."

Miles grabbed her by the arm before she could stalk past, and hauled her to a stop. With one foot, he kicked the door closed and placed himself between her and it. "Hen, don't do this."

"Don't do what?" Henrietta twitched her hand out of his grasp. Miles scrubbed a hand through his hair. "You know."

"No," Henrietta said flatly, "I don't know. Maybe I would know if someone had bothered to stop by or send a note instead of disappearing for an entire week—" Henrietta heard her voice rising and hastily clamped her lips shut before she started screeching like the Queen of the Night on a bad day.

Well, she was justified, she reminded herself. It had been a bad day, and a long one, between broken coaches and ghastly apparitions and idiot men who first hid from you when you did want to see them, and then wouldn't let you leave the room when you didn't. Henrietta glowered fiercely at Miles.

Miles held his ground manfully under the force of that glare. "I need to speak to you."

"And you were unavoidably detained by armed maniacs for the past week? Tied to a chair, perhaps? Deprived of writing implements? Bound, gagged?"

Miles swallowed hard. "I was a cad?"

"No argument," said Henrietta tightly, reaching for the doorknob.

Miles looked a little frustrated. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry."

"Well, that's very nice," muttered Henrietta. One little I'm sorry, for six—no, seven, if one counted most of today—days of sheer heart-scraping agony? Ha.

Miles either didn't hear her or chose not to.

"I miss you," he said earnestly. "Life is just… flatter when you're not around. I miss talking to you. I miss our rides in the park."

"Hmm," said Henrietta noncommittally, but her hand fell away from the doorknob.

"It's not the same when you're not there." Miles paced back and forth. "Hell, I even miss Almack's. Can you credit it? Almack's!"

He sounded so confused and indignant that, despite herself, despite all the waiting and disappointed hopes and angry diary entries, Henrietta felt her temper begin to melt away. This was her Miles again, not a distant stranger in her head, and there was something about his disgruntled tone that made her oddly hopeful, in a way no poetic declaration ever could.

"Lady Jersey will be flattered," said Henrietta cautiously, but a hint of a smile began to tug at the corners of her lips.

"Lady Jersey can go hang," said Miles with a vehemence that would have deeply distressed Lady Jersey had she been there to see it.

"That's not very charitable of you."

"Hen," Miles groaned, looking as though he was one moment away from banging his head against the door. "Will you let me get on with this?"

Henrietta promptly subsided, a strangle elation taking hold of her, stealing her breath and sending little tingles straight down to the tips of her fingers. She didn't even notice that Miles's perambulations had taken him well away from the door, leaving her path clear. Suddenly, storming out no longer seemed quite so imperative.

"All right," she said breathlessly.

"This rift between us," Miles waved his hands about expressively. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I," said Henrietta in a voice she scarcely recognized as her own.

"I can't do without you," Miles pressed on earnestly.

He couldn't do without her. This was Miles, Miles saying he couldn't do without her. She would have pinched herself to see if she were dreaming, asleep in the garden among the lavender and roses, with crickets chirping a lullaby, only if she were to dream such a moment, it would have been in an elegant gown of skyblue satin, with her hair arranged in charming ringlets, and Miles would be on his knees in the summer garden, not pacing like a maniac in her brother's darkened study. Yet, here she stood in her travel-stained twill, with her hair straggling limply around her face, a spot on her chin, and Miles was saying he couldn't do without her. It had to be real.

Henrietta's heart began to pound out the Hallelujah Chorus with full instrumental accompaniment.

She was in the midst of a particularly soaring high C, two seconds away from flinging her arms around Miles and bringing the chorus to crescendo with a resounding kiss, when Miles added, as though it summed up everything, "You're almost as important to me as Richard."

The orchestra broke off with a discordant screech; the chorus stuttered to a halt mid-hallelujah; and Henrietta's heart plummeted down from the vicinity of the pearly gates to land, with a loud thump, in the midst of yesterday's garbage.

"Oh." It was an effort to force even that one little syllable through her suddenly swollen throat.

You're almost as important to me as Richard.

He hadn't really said that, had he? But he hadi He must have. She couldn't possibly have made up anything quite so dreadful. Her week of bracing herself for the "You're a lovely person and someday you'll find someone who loves you" speech hadn't prepared her for this. This was worse than the "Someday you'll find someone who loves you" speech. This was worse than the "I value your friendship" speech. This was very nearly even worse than no speech at all.

"Hen," Miles finished hoarsely, grabbing both her hands in his, "I just want things to be the way they were."

His larger hands engulfed her small, stiff fingers, sending a tingle of warmth from her palm all the way up her arm. "Palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss." No wonder society compelled the wearing of gloves! The pressure of Miles's hand, palm to palm, bare skin to bare skin, felt like an illicit intimacy as they stood alone in the darkened room.

Henrietta expected Miles to release her hand. He didn't. Around them, the study was entirely quiet; even the crickets in the garden held their breath, and the leaves refused to rustle in the wind. Miles's thumb moved softly over the tender skin of her wrist, soothingly, rhythmically. Almost imperceptibly at first, his hand began to exert a steady pressure on hers, compelling her slowly towards him.

Henrietta's eyes flew to his face in consternation. Miles didn't seem to notice. His gaze was leveled directly at her lips.

If she closed her eyes… if she let herself give in to the pressure of their joined hands… if she leaned just the slightest bit closer…

He could go away and not speak to her again for another seven days.

The thought sluiced through Henrietta's confused haze of emotions as effectively as a bucket of cold water. Oh no, she thought, leaning back, away from the pull of Miles's hand and her own desires. She wasn't going to play this particular game again. He wanted things to be the way they were? Fine. He had set the rules; he could abide by them.

"No."

With just a little more force than necessary, Henrietta yanked her hands out of Miles's grasp.

Miles blinked several times, like a man coming out of a trance, staring at his empty hand as though he had never seen it before.

"No?" he echoed.

"No. It's no good." Miles was still frowning confusedly at his own hand. Henrietta's hands clenched together. Blast it, couldn't he even look at her? She added harshly, more harshly than she had intended, "We can't go back. Ever."

That got his attention. Miles looked sharply up at her. He didn't even bother to dash back the ubiquitous lock of hair that fell across his eyes. He just stared at her for a long, startled moment.

"Is that what you really want?"

"It's not a question of want," said Henrietta fiercely. "It's just the way it is."

Miles straightened, his face closing over into a nonchalant mask. He put his hands in his pockets, leaned against the desk, and raised both his eyebrows. "I take it that's that, then."

She hadn't realized how much she had been hoping for a negation, an "Actually, this friends thing was a bad idea, and I'm really quite passionately in love with you," until she didn't receive it. How could she have thought Miles was on the verge of succumbing to her dubious charms? She could probably fling off her clothes and dance a minuet around the room, and he would just say, "Hmm?"

Henrietta crossed her arms protectively over her chest and drew in a deep breath. "Yes," she said tightly, every muscle in her body tensed with the effort of trying not to cry. "I suppose it is."

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked deliberately out the door, executing every step with painstaking precision. She did not look back.

* * *

Charades: a cunning game of deception waged by an experienced operative

—from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation

"Surely, dismemberment is a bit extreme, don't you think, my dear?" Mrs. Cathcart blinked placidly at Amy across the tea table.

"Ah, but can a French agent shoot you if he's missing his arm?" countered Amy. "I thought not. Biscuit?"

The ladies had retired to the Rose Room while the gentlemen partook of their port after dinner. They presented a deceptively charming domestic scene, reflected Henrietta. Amy, her dark curls held back by a bandeau of golden silk, presided over the tea table, pouring steaming amber liquid into dainty rose-painted glasses. Beside her sat Miss Grey, dark hair pulled back with the same severe simplicity as her untrimmed gray dress, placing cups beneath Amy's somewhat erratic spigot with silent efficiency. Across from them, the comfortable form of Mrs. Cathcart spread over a small sofa. In her old-fashioned dress, with its thick, flowered fabric and wide side-panels, her cheeks as rumpled as pressed rose petals, she was the epitome of the country matron, ready to dole out herbal remedies, tie up the bruised knees of clumsy grandchildren, and tote soup to the deserving poor of the parish.

"No, thank you, dear," said Mrs. Cathcart, shaking her white-capped head as Amy offered her a plate of biscuits. From the gentle frown on her face, one would have expected her to be discussing a particularly complicated knitting pattern, or worrying over the fate of a maid who had found herself in the family way. "You're quite right about the difficultly of aiming a weapon without an arm, but wouldn't it be more Christian simply to shoot the man?"

Amy put the teapot down with an emphatic clink of china. "But then how can we question him?"

Mrs. Cathcart considered. "How, indeed?" she murmured, sipping delicately from her cup. "How, indeed."

Amy shifted restlessly in her seat to stare out the window, which reflected back her own impatient face. "I don't understand why Richard won't let us go after him," she expostulated, a wealth of frustration in her voice.

Familial loyalty stirred Henrietta out of her contemplative silence. "We can't risk the school," Henrietta explained for what felt like the thousandth time.

After her encounter with Miles the night before, Henrietta had gathered her scattered wits together, reminded herself of why she had been flitting about the house in the dark in the first place, and betook herself to her brother to announce the appearance of the Phantom Monk. Wars waited for no such trivialities as broken hearts; while it might feel as though the world had shattered into jagged fragments when she wrenched her hand from Miles's in the study, outside, the sun blithely rose and set, the planets circled in their fixed course, and somewhere in Sussex a French spy plotted mayhem.

For a brief moment, Henrietta had basked in the glow of noble self-denial. She could picture herself a veiled figure of mystery, a constant bane to the French, and a source of wonder and speculation at home. "A broken heart, you know," people would whisper. "A heartless rogue— but isn't it always? But her loss is England's gain. Why, the way she captured that Black Tulip…" The daydream bubble popped, and Henrietta grimaced wryly at herself. It was quite impossible to imagine Miles as an evil seducer, any more than it was to cast herself as a tragic heroine. Henrietta had always known she ran more to Portia than Juliet. Besides, she never understood how tragic, veiled figures managed to get anything accomplished with their vision permanently obscured like that. Wouldn't they be constantly tripping over small tables? But that, Henrietta considered, was precisely why she would never make a tragic heroine. She had been cursed with a logical mind.